


Dragons of a Red Stone

by FrostedGear



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Evil Harry, Gen, Harry doesn't live with the Dursleys, Manipulative Dumbledore, Minor Violence, Nice Dark Wizards, Raistlin gets bunnies, Raistlin likes Sudoku, Raistlin/Dalamar friendship, Set after Dragons of Summer Flame, to the point where if I can't find something for him to do Sudoku is the default
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedGear/pseuds/FrostedGear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something isn't quite right with the blokes at Number 64 Privet Drive. So when Harry leaves the Dursely's to go live with them, Dumbledore isn't best pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Residents

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this is just an attempted rewrite of Philosopher's Stone with the addition my favourite Dark Wizards.
> 
> Warning, may contain actual plot later on.
> 
> Also, I haven't read all the Dragonlance books. I've read Dragons of Summer Flame and aren't sure whether to keep going. So there's no War of Souls in this, though elements might be mentioned.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, if you find spelling/grammar mistakes, please tell me so I can fix them.

Chapter 1 – New Residents

To the average onlooker, the owner of 64 Privet Drive was a little odd, in that, near as the other residents could tell, he didn't work. This annoyed some of the residents greatly, some, like Mr Dursley, would loudly complain about foreign immigrants stealing homes and leeching the government whenever the young man walked past.

"Disgraceful," Vernon Dursley would remark to his wife, Petunia, "We offer these riff-raff the stability of our job system, and people like him flaunt about, staying at home, not doing anything, and even if he is, it probably isn't a proper job."

"Quite right, dear," Petunia would agree, watching the man's retreating back with narrowed eyes. "Majere, what kind of name is that? I certainly wouldn't trust a plumber named Majere."

"Probably Egyptian or some such thing," Vernon often replied. Many of the Dursley's neighbours agreed with the conclusion Vernon had come to, and would often judge Majere based on this, either by sneering at him or avoiding him.

Although really, it wasn't that Majere looked funny, with his golden hourglass eyes (“The youth of today, with their horrid coloured contact lenses!”), or that he was unemployed, or that some days he would wear black robes, others a shirt and trousers, or that he walked with a large, odd-looking staff. No, the thing that bothered the residents of Privet Drive the most about their new neighbour was that he seemed to have appeared one day inside the house, no moving van, no introductions, no warning of any kind. One day the house was unoccupied, the next, letters were arriving for a Mr Raistlin Majere. It was almost like magic.

Raistlin wasn't particularly enjoying this change either. Sure, it was a lovely change of scenery when compared to the sandy hell that is the Abyss, but he knew 64 Privet Drive was not his home. He missed his tower, his spellbooks, and to be rather frank, he was lonely. Before the strange occurrence that had literally caused him to roll out of the fireplace of number 64, Raistlin had had his tower. He'd been master to the dark elf Dalamar Argent, who for all his elven quirks and secrecy, wasn't all that bad company. Before that, he'd had Caramon. Being a twin, and the weaker one at that, Raistlin had rarely been alone, his twin's overbearing, protective presence often smothering Raistlin at times. So when occasions came that gave him solitude, Raistlin was usually thankful at first, then became painfully aware of how empty things seemed without Caramon's senseless chatter, or even simply the awareness of another body being in the vicinity.

He hadn't really known what to do with himself at first, but now, several months down the line, Raistlin had adjusted to this strange new world. He no longer jumped at the sound of a passing train or plane, mistaking them for dragons. Ambulances and Police sirens still made him think of banshee, but this part of England seemed to be a quiet province, and Raistlin had to admit, cars were certainly a step up from horse carriages.

And so it was that while Raistlin was in his small kitchen area, fixing his foul smelling tea, he heard an almighty crash come from the front room. Raistlin frowned and left his drink stewing on the counter as he went to discover the cause of the noise. It hadn't sounded as though anything had broken, so Raistlin supposed it might have been one of his bookshelves collapsing. Sadly, Caramon was the physical twin, and though Raistlin had checked their integrity several times, he still wasn't overly trustful of the three shelves he had mounted onto the wall, each only holding half a dozen or so of his thinner books.

Entering the room, Raistlin was greeted to a cloud of soot which made the mage cough and waft his arm in a vain attempt to clear the air a bit. Someone else in the room coughed too, struggling up from the carpeted floor. Covered head to toe in soot, it took Raistlin a moment to realise who his unexpected visitor was.

"Dalamar," he said, drawing the dark elf's attentions toward himself.

"S- _Shalafi_..." Dalamar stammered, looking at Raistlin in a mix of awe and fright. Reasonable really, the last Dalamar knew, Raistlin was dead. Or at least, living on a separate plane of existence.

Giving the room a cursory glance, Raistlin determined that Dalamar had not managed to break anything upon his rough entrance. "Clean up the soot," he ordered his former apprentice, turning from the doorway to return to the kitchen and his drink. He returned after a minute to find Dalamar in much the same position, on his feet staring blankly at the doorway, still covered in soot and looking very lost and small in his flowing black robes.

With a gesture and arcane word, Raistlin cleansed the room and Dalamar of the mess and sat down in a soft armchair in one corner of the room, placing his drink on the coffee table after taking a sip. He looked up to find Dalamar still staring, mouth slightly agape.

"Close your mouth before a kender takes interest in your teeth," Raistlin chastised. Dalamar did as he was bid and looked around the room in wonder.

64 Privet Drive wasn't a big house by any means. It had three bedrooms and a bathroom on the upper floor, and a kitchen and living room on the lower, with a hallway separating the two rooms and the stairs leading up. The living room was the largest room in the house, with the fireplace near the centre of the room, a four person dining table to the back end of the house and a sofa and armchair to the other end, the Staff of Magius leaning on the wall between the two. There was a long glass coffee table and in the corner opposite Raistlin sat an old television set, though the mage didn't use it, mostly because he had no idea how the thing worked.

"Where is this?" Dalamar said, looking at the garish lace curtains that hid he and Raistlin from any passers-by with a look of mixed disgust and horror.

Raistlin shrugged. He had shifted to lounge in his seat, looking up at Dalamar, resting his elbow on the chair arm and propping his head against his fist. Truth be told, Raistlin was rather enjoying Dalamar's confusion. It was nice, seeing someone else in his situation.

"According to the letters that arrive every few days, this is 64 Privet Drive," Raistlin provided, his free hand retrieving his tea.

"What land?"

"England."

Dalamar laughed shakily. " _Shalafi_ , I'd appreciate it if you didn't joke."

"I'm not. To my knowledge, we are not on Krynn."

"Then where-"

Raistlin sighed in exasperation. "If I knew, Dalamar, truly, where we are, or how to return, do you honestly believe I'd be here?"

Dalamar fell silent as he thought through what Raistlin had said. After a few moments, he sank limply onto the sofa beside Raistlin's armchair. He turned to Raistlin, a begging look in his eyes, "But... the magic is still present, is it not? You used a spell just now?"

Raistlin nodded, "I did. It's about the only saving grace to this hellhole," he added under his breath.

"What's out there?" Dalamar nodded his head toward the curtains. Raistlin waved his hand in invitation. Looking between his _Shalafi_ and the window several times, Dalamar eventually got to his feet and brushed the curtain away at one side.

To the elf, the houses lining the street were ugly boxes, the gardens around them pathetic when compared to the woods of his homeland and he really hadn't a clue what the colourful cages in front of almost every house were. Still, better a street than the Abyss.

"The humans call them 'cars'," Raistlin said, as though reading Dalamar's thoughts.

Dalamar frowned. "I think I see seats within them. Are they some kind of transport?"

"Yes. Essentially, they are carriages that don't need a horse."

More magic? Dalamar wondered, looking about the street some more, startling when he noticed a woman that reminded him distinctly of a horse glaring at him from further up the street, a chubby little boy yelling at her, presumably for attention.

Letting the curtain fall, Dalamar turned back to his former master. "Why are we here?"

"Because Takhisis's eternal torture wasn't enough?" Raistlin ventured bitterly. In his opinion, some of the other residents here were far worse than being torn asunder by the Five Headed Dragon that was his Dread Queen. Like those show-off Dursley's, and their prized brat with a voice shriller than a kender.

" _Shalafi_?"

"Hmm?" Raistlin redirected his attention back to Dalamar. The elf was fidgeting, which in itself was unusual, his brown eyes searching the drab living room for something, Raistlin wasn't sure what.

"Why are we here?" Dalamar asked in a small voice, his gaze on the wallpaper some several inches to Raistlin's left.

"I don't know, apprentice," Raistlin sighed. Startled by the address, Dalamar snapped his brown eyes toward Raistlin.

"Am I still your apprentice? I may still call you _shalafi_ , but upon your death, I became master of the tower in my own right, Head of the Black Robes and later Head of the Conclave," Dalamar shot, anger now replacing his former distress, "I am more powerful than you."

Raistlin scoffed, "And yet when that spectre gave my staff to Palin, you were quaking were you not?" He gestured to the Staff of Magius that leant near him. "I have never sought to be leader of those dust bags and as I'm sure the guardians have told you, I am the true Master of the Tower." Dalamar grit his teeth, his hands curling into fists. With a fond smile, Raistlin continued, "I only called you that to get a rise out of you. Knights don’t cry when a sword breaks. However, it may be beneficial for us to assist one another here."

"My servitude for your knowledge?" Dalamar ventured.

"If you dislike the idea, you are welcome to leave, but you will not get far, and whilst your magic may aid you, one of the humans will end your existence soon enough. Elves are but fantasy creatures here."

"..." Dalamar considered the idea. He doubted that mere humans could be so strong, magic-users aside. Yet, Dalamar didn’t think Raistlin was lying to him. But then again… Dalamar’s hand went almost absently to his chest and the five weeping wounds beneath his robes.

Dalamar snapped his hand to his side and looked away when he saw Raistlin smiling at him, the golden eyes glittering with mirth.

Raistlin snickered. “There’s a couple of free rooms upstairs if you wish to explore, Dalamar.”

Dalamar nodded and turned to bow curtly to Raistlin before entering the hallway. To his right, Dalamar could see the narrow kitchen Raistlin had been in before his arrival, to the left, the front door and a flight of stairs leading up. Looking around, Dalamar saw the same drab, ugly flowery décor throughout the house, except for the room he figured must be the master bedroom. Here, he found the design more suiting to his _shalafi_. A double bed with black velvet sheets, the odd exotic item and rug spread about, a well cushioned rocking chair in the corner, with a small desk nearby. There were several bookshelves on the far wall. Going up and looking though them, Dalamar recognised them as Raistlin’s spellbooks, or rather, copies thereof. The bindings weren’t the typical black leather Raistlin had chosen, nor the midnight blue of Fistandantilus. The ink was newer, the books fewer too, by a significant portion.

On the desk were a few blank books, a half filled one and some pens. He knew he probably shouldn’t, this was Raistlin’s bedroom for Takhisis’s sake, but Dalamar found himself slipping into the rocking chair, one hand reaching for a pen, the other, a blank book. He called to mind his most necessary spells, ran the words over in his mind, meticulously shaped each letter carefully in the spidery language of magic.

The passage of time eluded Dalamar as he continued to write, covering pages in what felt like a single hour, but was actually several.

“I see you are making yourself at home,” Raistlin noted, startling Dalamar so violently he dragged the pen straight across his page.

“S- _Shalafi_! M-My apologies,” Dalamar stammered, standing up, unconsciously moving to obscure the small desk with his body like a child hiding broken crockery from their parent.

Raistlin waved his hand dismissively, went to sit on the bed. “It is fine, to be expected really, the first thing a wizard does when he loses his spellbooks is replace them, don’t you think?” he said, with a gesture to the shelves. Dalamar followed his gaze, his mind turning again to something he had been wondering about.

“In all this house, this is the only room that is different, why is that?”

“It is the only room I can change,” Raistlin replied softly. “I can take things that already exist in the house and rearrange them manually, but I cannot make anything appear, certainly nothing from Krynn anyway.”

“Then all these things-“

“Exist on this plane of existence, yes,” Raistlin said, completing Dalamar’s thought for him. He pointed at the woven rug below Dalamar’s feet. “From a place called Tibet. The tapestry to your left, another country by the name of Africa. Much of the crockery declares it is of China make and other everyday items including food bear the name of their maker, known as the ‘brand’.”

“How long have you been here?” Dalamar wondered, looking about the room again as though the objects would answer him.

“Several months,” Raistlin answered evasively. “Why not go elsewhere, to a castle, or somewhere where your gifts would have you treated as a god? The god you aspired to become?” Dalamar’s eyes narrowed, his eyebrows knit together as he scrutinised Raistlin, and if there was a hint of malice in his tone, Raistlin didn’t comment on it. “Do they even have castles?”

“There are castles,” Raistlin allowed, removing an envelope from a hidden pocket in his robes. He held it out to Dalamar. “This arrived a few hours ago for you.”

With a frown, Dalamar strode around the bed to stand before Raistlin and took the missive from him. Sure enough, the letter was addressed to him, stating he was a resident of 64 Privet Drive, in some place called Little Whinging, Surrey. He looked back to Raistlin.

“Do you know what this is about?” “I believe it may explain a few things about this world, but, no, I have not read the contents,” Raistlin shrugged.

“Then how do you know what’s inside?”

“I received a letter the day I came here also,” Raistlin said caustically. Dalamar glowered in return and left the room.

Claiming the room furthest from Raistlin’s as his own, Dalamar sat down on the bed and slit the envelope open with the dagger that was always on his person. Wizards on Krynn were permitted to carry a dagger or other small knife for protection, a last defence, should the magic fail them. This was done in memory of Magius, mage friend of the Legendary Huma Dragonbane, who had fought beside the knight in the Third Dragon War.

Inside were two notes. One explained the currency of England and contained a small piece on the necessity of converting the ‘Pound Sterling’ into the money of another country, should Dalamar wish to leave and travel elsewhere. The other attempted to explain how he came to be here:

_To Our Honoured Guest,_

_You come to this world thanks to the magics of the fireplace of Number 64. I admit I do not know how this anomaly occurred, nor how to correct it and send you home. All I can offer you is the knowledge that you are not alone, many have come before you and I am sure many will come after._

_Sadly, I cannot be here to personally greet you all. For years, my family were caretakers of this house. As you can imagine, the hermetic lifestyle of waiting for strange people to fall out of the fireplace leaves one to doubt their sanity, further decreasing socialisation. My father died in the armchair downstairs, staring almost unblinkingly at the fireplace. It was then I realised just how unhealthy this job is._

_I have therefore renounced my title as Caretaker of Number 64, and instead cast several powerful charms that will regurgitate this same letter for all that come through the fireplace._

_You will find another envelope filled with money in the kitchen to get you started on your new life._

_Sincerely,_

_Eric Pike_

_P.S. The local newspaper will be delivered once a week. There’s usually job advertisements a little after the middle._

So… People in this world had magic too. But that didn’t quite explain why Raistlin was waiting around, why he hadn’t taken the money and gone. Perhaps he was a magician at children’s name-day parties in the area?

Dalamar continued to ponder what drove his Shalafi, staring blankly at the letter until his stomach gave a mighty rumble, startling him from his thoughts. Putting a hand to his belly, it occurred to Dalamar that he hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived here.

Exiting his room onto the landing, Dalamar noticed the door to Raistlin’s room was now closed. He also belatedly noticed after seeing the silver moonlight pouring through the glass window of the door downstairs, that it was night time, causing him to mutter the spell that would conjure a small blue flame in his palm. He didn't strictly need the flame, with his elven sight, but the magic was a small comfort that made everything feel a bit more real. Also, mould was far more difficult to notice when you could only see in greyscale.

A clock on the wall in the kitchen told Dalamar it was a little after third watch. Moving around slowly and methodically, Dalamar looked through the various cupboards in search of something a little more filling than Raistlin’s usual fruit and wine. He almost set the counter behind him on fire upon discovering the fridge and its blinding yellow light. Quickly regathering his wits, Dalamar looked inside and found his hope dying as his eyes locked on a small box of eggs, half a block of cheese, a bunch of grapes and a thin packet of dark chocolate. Sometimes, he really hated Raistlin’s delicate tastes.

Plucking the grapes out of the fridge Dalamar sighed and resigned himself to the meagre meal before heading to bed not long after.

As he drifted off, Dalamar thought hopefully that he could convince Raistlin to either buy more food, or to let him do the shopping.


	2. Surprises and a Boy Named Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Harry's actually in this chapter for a little bit (woop!) and... yeah, updates are gonna be spaced out due to my being in my last year of uni.
> 
> Thanks to rebekahalana for reviewing - I'm glad you're enjoying this so far ^_^

Dalamar woke the next morning to the sound of food being fried. Curious, Dalamar slipped out of his bed and crept down the stairs as silently as he could. He knew Raistlin could cook, any great campaigner had to know their way around a pot to survive, but that didn’t make the odd times Dalamar found his _shalafi_ preparing food any less unsettling. It was ordinary, mundane, the complete opposite of the archmage. It also contradicted Dalamar's fanciful belief that Raistlin photosynthesised via the moons for sustenance.

The dark elf entered the kitchen as Raistlin placed a fried egg on a plate, accompanied by a single unbuttered slice of toast, cut into soldiers. The human mage was clothed in a dull green shirt with long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing thin arms and an intricate sling on his arm, used to house his dagger and also allow it to fall into his hand with a flick of the wrist. Raistlin also wore faded blue jeans, torn in a few places with stained knees, presumably from kneeling in dirt. His white hair was loose as usual, several strands tucked behind one ear. But even with the unusual dress, the almost soft appearance, one feature shocked Dalamar more than anything.

Raistlin’s skin wasn’t golden.

Raistlin pulled his sleeves down to his wrists, collected his plate and turned to find Dalamar staring at him as though he had suddenly developed wings. Blinking, (he hadn’t expected the dark elf to be awake just yet), Raistlin cocked his head to one side and asked scathingly, “For heaven’s sake, Dalamar, what is it?”

“Y…Your skin…” the dark elf murmured.

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed, “You didn’t honestly think it was _naturally_ golden did you?” Clearly Dalamar had, or something to that effect, for he seemed to recoil slightly. With an irritated glare, Raistlin pushed past Dalamar, headed for the table in the front room.

Dalamar appeared again before Raistlin some several minutes later, the day’s paper in hand.

“Forgive my earlier impertinence, _Shalafi_ ,” Dalamar apologized with a bow that made Raistlin wonder just how much of his pride Dalamar was swallowing, suddenly playing servant again after so many years at the top.

Dalamar offered Raistlin the paper, who took it, pushing aside his half eaten breakfast so he could lay the newspaper open on the table.

Seating himself in the chair opposite Raistlin, Dalamar began, “The letter from yesterday mentioned an envelope of money…” he drifted off, hoping to prompt Raistlin into conversation.

What of it?” Raistlin replied after a long moment.

“W-a… I…” Dalamar cleared his throat, angry with himself for stuttering. “I was… wondering where it was. I didn’t see it in the kitchen last night or this morning…”

Raistlin turned the page, “I put it in one of the drawers, then placed a mage lock on it.”

“How… um, how much is in there?” Gods this was weird. Dalamar hadn't needed to cast half a thought to money in decades, now he was (at least for the moment), living with his not-so-dead ex-teacher, in a house that even a kender, with their gaudy opinion of fashion, would call ugly, without a penny to his name. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was all some sort of dream, or perhaps a hallucination brought on by one of the more deadly wares in Jenna's shop.

Raistlin raised his eyes from the paper to meet Dalamar’s. “Why?”

“Well, it’s mine too, am I not allowed to be curious?” Dalamar said, a defensive bite to his words.

Raistlin returned his gaze to the newspaper. “There was three thousand when I arrived. I’ve used perhaps two hundred altogether?”

"I don’t suppose you have any idea what that is in steel coins?”

Raistlin shrugged, shook his head slightly.

A crash echoed suddenly from the front of the house. Dalamar looked to the fireplace in anticipation, only to note, with a pang of disappointment, the lack of soot and instead the presence of clear glass shards on the carpet. A red ball the size of Dalamar’s fist lay innocently in the centre of the room.

Dalamar looked back across the table to find Raistlin looking equal parts bored and livid, which created an interesting expression. The sounds of laughing children drifted through the broken window, and Dalamar was certain he heard the words, “Great shot, Dudley!”.

The children made more noise before a dull thud sounded against the door amongst more laughter and jeering.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Stay here,” Raistlin commanded Dalamar as he stood and collected the ball from the floor.

Raistlin already knew who was at the door, and it wasn’t the brat that had broken the window. Opening the front door, a small thin boy with a mop of black hair stumbled back, having been about to knock again. Four boys were running down the street, two of which were carrying cricket bats.

"M-Mr Majere,” the boy stammered, not looking up at the mage.

“Harry, isn’t it?” Raistlin asked kneeling down to be eye-level with the small child. Harry nodded and muttered something Raistlin couldn’t make out.

“What was that?” he asked softly, gently touching the boy’s shoulder. Raistlin was more than capable of being nice when he wanted to be and was rather sympathetic to Harry. He didn’t know much about the boy’s predicament, but Raistlin knew enough to tell the boy was being abused, neglected. It made Raistlin remember his own childhood, except that Harry had nothing to protect him.

"I-I was wondering if I could have my ball back,” Harry said. “S-sorry, I… I broke your window.”

He didn’t of course and Raistlin said as much to the frightened child, who insisted otherwise. Raistlin found Harry’s excuses painfully similar to the ones Caramon would spout when trying to take the blame for his twin. People had known then too that Caramon was playing scapegoat.

Raistlin sighed, “Harry, I know it wasn’t you. I also know those boys threw you at my door.” He held the ball up for Harry to see. “Take it, but remember; if ever you need it, my door will open for you. I’m not like these buffoons, I’ll listen to you and I certainly won’t say anything to your aunt and uncle.”

Harry stared at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. Unseeingly the boy grabbed the ball and stumbled away from Raistlin. With a muttered thanks, the boy turned and ran after his cousin and the three other boys.

With another sigh, Raistlin rose and closed the door, walked back into the front room and cast a mending spell on the window.

“Do you know that boy?” Dalamar asked. At a look from Raistlin, Dalamar pointed at his ears, adding, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but, elven hearing and all.”

“He lives up the road at number four,” Raistlin relented, though he continued to glower at the elf. “I’m going into the garden, try to make yourself useful.”

Raistlin Majere’s back garden was something of a wonder to his neighbours, who would occasionally peer over the fence and marvel at the neat lines of plotted herbs and bushes. Many mages were apt with herb lore, it obviously being far cheaper to grow one’s own spell components than to buy them. Back at the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, the garden had been just inside the iron gates around the tower, and though Raistlin had not tended to it overly often, he had carefully taught Dalamar in the art and left much of the work to the elf, who had done much the same when he had taken control of the tower.

Now however, Raistlin felt the old enjoyment of growing and tending to various herbs and plants, particularly the rarer breeds that he could sell on. He didn’t like to ruin his robes with dirt and grass stains however, and so often wore more acceptable ‘normal’ clothing when working his garden.

Raistlin could see the woman from number 62 peering over the fence in his peripherals and pretended not to notice her as he went about watering the plants. It was easy to forget her and lose himself in his thoughts.

He had visited a Wicca shop yesterday, not long before Dalamar had appeared. This wasn’t unusual as the shop’s owner bought potions from Raistlin, and the mage occasionally bought her wares in return. Yesterday however, Raistlin had found a book in the shop regarding herbs in magic, which wouldn’t have been unusual, except that the book was in elven script, and not that Lord of the Rings drivel he had heard of recently. True, Krynnish elven.

Needless to say, Raistlin had purchased the book immediately.

He had perused the book while Dalamar was upstairs last night. It hadn't been particularly useful, in that it told Raistlin nothing he didn't already know. But now he had proof, between the book and Dalamar, that other Krynnish things were coming to this world... Wherever this world was.

Still, he could hardly draw any dramatic conclusions from two people, a book and a letter. There was no guarantee that only things from Krynn came out of the fireplace, nor was there any indication of the portal being neither predictable or two-way.

Raistlin sighed and knelt down to tend to a rosebush, the . There were other things he should be focusing on.

* * *

 

While his _shalafi_ worked, Dalamar looked around the front room, it being the only one he had left properly unexplored the other day, his attention quickly falling to the small collection of books on the new looking shelves to the right of the dining table. Like their counterparts upstairs, they were Raistlin’s spellbooks, all written in his hand, all but one. Frowning, Dalamar removed the book. It was in elven, Dalamar noted it was the Qualinesti dialect from the few differences in spelling.

The book was a very basic explanation on magical herbs, and Dalamar smiled in amusement as he read Raistlin's narrow handwriting in the margins, correcting the book in many places and now and then striking a line through entire paragraphs.

Closing the book, Dalamar did a mental calculation of all the spellbooks he'd found so far along with how long he'd guessed Raistlin had been here. He was under no misguided notion that Raistlin had less spells than Dalamar himself did; Raistlin had all of his own spellbooks and those of Fistandantilus to rewrite, in which case he was perhaps a third of the way done, assuming he wasn't mentally recording other spells when he was watching over his nephew, Palin.

Looking around though, it was obvious the recording of his spells was the most important task to Raistlin, but that he had become sidetracked by other things, his garden, this new, odd world, the strange fireplace. Dalamar didn't blame him, he too was interested in this place and their reason for even being here in the first place. Raistlin had died decades ago, and Dalamar could think of nothing in recent memory that would lead him to be here.

His only comfort was in the moons. He saw Solinari plainly last night, and, being a black robed wizard, he could also sense Nuitari. He'd have probably seen his patron if he'd looked outside last night, and made a mental note to do just so tonight.

For now though, Dalamar replaced the useless book back on its self and returned upstairs, collected the spellbook he had begun filling, another empty one and a pen and returned to work at the kitchen table. He also spent a long moment looking at the remains of Raistlin's breakfast before pulling the plate over and finishing the meagre meal. Raistlin made good eggs, and it wasn't as though the younger mage would want to finish the meal. Besides, Dalamar hated cooking.


	3. Domestic Letdowns

Chapter 3 - Domestic letdowns

  
Harry had gone to bed crying last night. Aunt Petunia had taken the scissors to his hair and left him near bald with small tufts of jet black hair, the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead exposed for all to see. However, it must have been some kind of nightmare, for when Harry awoke the next day, it was to the familiar brushing of matted hair across his temple.

  
After his cupboard was opened by a flabbergasted Uncle Vernon, Harry was given strict instructions to wash the dishes with the possibility of breakfast determined on how clean the dishes were at the end. Behind him, Harry could hear his aunt and uncle speaking in hushed tones, mostly drowned out by the boat engine that was actually his cousin Dudley eating. Still, from what Harry could make out of the conversation, they were discussing Harry's suddenly regrown hair.

  
"Weren't you bald last night?" Dudley called rudely to Harry around a loud belch as he collected more bacon from the plate on the dining table.

  
"You must be mistaken, Diddums, Mummy is cutting his hair tonight. She hasn't done it already," Petunia answered Dudley, smiling and adding a couple of sausages to her son's plate to diffuse the look of confusion on his face.

  
"Could'a sworn you'd done it," Dudley muttered into his breakfast, though it was obvious he didn't really care.

  
"When you finish up, Dudders, we'll get you off to school, yes?" Uncle Vernon said with a smile. He shot Harry a look, "Go get the paper boy. And get dressed, no one in this house goes out in pyjamas."

  
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said as he finished the plates and wiped his soapy hands on a nearby tea towel. In his haste to carry out his tasks, Harry missed the disparaging look Petunia sent her husband and the gruff look of annoyance he shot back.

  
Almost twenty minutes later, when Uncle Vernon had the two boys buckled in and was pulling out of the drive, Harry looked out the back window and saw the strange old man that lived at number 64. He was walking out of the estate, talking to a young man with long dark hair and lightly tanned skin wearing embroidered black robes. Harry was used to seeing odd people dressed in robes, for every month or so, one would come up to him, shake the young boy's hand and then disappear. It was strange, particularly because his aunt and uncle would tell him off for talking to them even though Harry mostly stood there and blinked in confusion.

  
Shaking his head and looking forward, Harry tried to forget the strange people that dressed as though it was constantly Halloween and wouldn't seem to leave him alone.  
It then occurred to Harry that he couldn't remember having done his maths homework. Yet another thing that wasn't going to improve his day.

 

* * *

 

Dalamar had never seen anything like this in his life. He'd seen shops, markets, dragons, the undead, as well as all manner of strange and wondrous things. He had however, never seen a Sainsbury's.

  
Outside, the weather was quite mild, with Raistlin informing him that mid-April was mid-Chislmont, also known as Spring Rain to the elves. Inside the Sainsbury's however, Dalamar felt both warm and cold, with breezes of different temperature coming from all directions. He cringed and looked to his side to see Raistlin biting his bottom lip, attempting to stifle a snicker, the jacket he was wearing pulled closer around his thin frame.

  
Dalamar raised a questioning eyebrow.

  
"You look constipated," Raistlin told Dalamar quietly. "Get one of those baskets," he added and moved past the dark elf to examine the fruit. Dalamar followed scowling, aware there were people staring at him, particularly the human children. He threw his cowl over his head to hide his pointed ears.

  
"You're enjoying this aren't you?" Dalamar growled under his breath at the other mage.

  
"Would you not be amused if the boot was on the other foot?" Raistlin asked, placing a bag of oranges in the basket at Dalamar's side. Raistlin was right, Dalamar would probably make snide remarks every other minute about how useless Raistlin was being were their roles reversed. As it was, Dalamar frowned and thrust the basket at Raistlin.  
"At the very least, you can carry this then."

  
"Why? You're the one that wanted to buy food," Raistlin returned, not reaching for the offered basket.

  
"Because if I have to suffer being mocked for however long we are here, the least you can do in penitence is carry our shopping," Dalamar huffed, emphasising the 'our' with a shake of the basket holding Raistlin's oranges. Raistlin rolled his eyes and took the handle from Dalamar.

  
Raistlin let a breath out through his nose. "Fine," he said tartly, gesturing with his other hand, "lead the way."

  
Dalamar looked around, not really sure what he was searching for. The idea of all the store's wares being in sections wasn't new to Dalamar, so navigation wasn't a massive problem, but he did question the obscene amount of variety. Who needed eight varieties of apple? Why was it possible to purchase venison and swordfish, but not rabbit or swallow? And honestly, what in Nuitari's name is Spam?

  
"Can you literally buy anything in a tin or a bag?" Dalamar marvelled, examining a packet of broccoli pasta with distain.

  
"Pretty much," Raistlin answered from further down the aisle, where he was looking at the soups.

  
"Why? Most of this looks, or at least sounds, revolting."

  
"People in general are lazy?" the other mage ventured, selecting a small tin of chilli tomato soup and adding it to the small pile of food in the basket. Dalamar grimaced once more at the packet in his hands before tossing it back on the shelf.

  
The two flowed up and down more aisles, their only acquisition a cob of bread Dalamar hoped tasted better than he expected it to, before passing the clothing section.

  
"I suppose I should get something more acceptable also?" Dalamar ventured, giving Raistlin a critical look from the corner of his eye. The other mage was clad in a pair of dark skinny jeans and had a red shirt on beneath his jacket.

  
Raistlin shrugged. "The clothes aren't that bad. Rather comfortable really. Besides, I have yet to come across anyone that actually knows what a mage is, or believes in magic. So looking out of place grants you no advantage or authority."

  
With a reluctant huff, Dalamar started down the rows of clothing, running a hand along the various shirts and trousers. Deciding he would find little amusement in watching Dalamar, Raistlin found a seat near the changing rooms, put the basket next to his foot and pulled one of his spellbooks out of his jacket pocket.

  
"I'm done," Dalamar muttered around twenty minutes later, several pieces of clothing slung over his arm. Raistlin, not really caring what Dalamar had chosen, repocketed his book and took the basket in hand again, the original novelty of Dalamar shopping long faded. Another fifteen minutes of further shelf browsing passed, which would have been dull had a small child not ran from his parents and attempted to hide under Dalamar's robes.

  
Dalamar stiffened as he felt his robes jerk up and then down at the back. "What on Nuitari-" A cold pair of arms wrapped around his leg while down the aisle a shrill, angry voice yelled, "Anthony Higgins! Get back here right now!"

  
The people around them had gone silent, with a few spying on the angry woman that was stalking around calling for her son. Dalamar pulled on his clothes and tried to step away, though the child showed impressive strength by wrapping his legs around Dalamar's to better secure himself to the dark elf, and pulled the robe hem from his hands (Dalamar would argue later his grip was weak from surprise). From his peripheral vision, Dalamar saw Raistlin gripping onto a shelf for support, doing his damnedest not to laugh even as his shoulders shook violently with silent laughter and his face began to turn a deep red from his mirth.

  
Seeing no other option, as he couldn't see to rid himself of the boy, Dalamar walked, or rather limped, over to the mother and explained her son was attached to his leg. Between the two of them and after much screaming from mother and child, Dalamar was eventually freed and apologised to, and returned to Raistlin who was doubled over panting, the remnant giggles of laughter coming between breaths.

  
"I gather you enjoyed that," Dalamar said caustically, glaring at the other man, who was still trying to recover and could only nod. Grabbing the basket angrily, Dalamar stalked off to the checkouts with Raistlin following a few minutes later.

  
"I think you should forget the new clothing," Raistlin chuckled, walking past Dalamar to assist with the packing.

  
"I swear, Majere, by the gods, if you don't shut it, I'll beat that smile off right your face!" Dalamar growled menacingly. Raistlin shook his head and continued to smile, though he didn't bring the matter up again.

 

* * *

 

  
As the days and weeks went by Dalamar also look a small interest in the boy from number 4. He'd watch from his bedroom as Harry was made to water the plants in high summer, weed the garden and was dragged about by his cousin for the sole purpose of someone to blame. It was due to his curiosity in Harry that Dalamar became aware of the abnormality his aunt and uncle were trying to hide.

  
"Harry is a wizard."

  
Raistlin looked up from the Sudoku in his lap to find Dalamar in the front room doorway looking stern and faintly imposing.

  
"He is," Raistlin agreed disinterestedly, looking back to the number grid.

  
"Do you consider it a prerequisite for wizards to suffer for a certain number of years before receiving proper schooling?" Dalamar bit, coming into the room and crossing his arms. "If you know, why aren’t you teaching him?"

  
"Why aren't you?" Raistlin shot back, adding after a moment. "I don't know how he acquired the magic, and while I would like to know if it's something natural to this world that perhaps has some kind of secret recruitment force, meaning the boy will suddenly disappear in the next few years-”

  
“You intend to use him as an experiment.”

  
“I have told the boy, repeatedly, if he does not wish to remain with his relatives, I do not mind him staying here. It is for him to decide, not for us to go around kidnapping every magical urchin we come across."

  
Raistlin made a fair argument, but that didn’t mean Dalamar had to like it, not that he was particularly enamoured by the idea of adopting a plethora of children. It wasn’t so much that he was bad with them, but that elven children were so different from human ones, even half-elven children were too different from their pure blood kin – always looking for somewhere to go, something to do. Rebelling and driving their poor parents to the point of mental breakdown. Perhaps the worst part of it was how fragile humans were, something Dalamar could ignore with his lovers, rarely staying with them for more than a few years. If he had a child by one though… well, he certainly didn’t envy Laurana or Tanis, the later of whom was already old enough in appearance to pass for his wife’s father the last Dalamar had seen the pair.

  
Dalamar huffed a disgruntled sigh through his nose. “You can’t want to just stand by and do nothing though?” he pressed.

  
“I don’t report his cousin’s misdoings,” Raistlin pointed out.

  
“Saving him the blame from the occasional broken window, that’s hardly much.”

  
Raistlin shrugged. He was still focusing on the Sudoku and wrote in a few numbers before replying to Dalamar. “What would you suggest? To get the boy alone when not in the house is an effort that attracts too much attention. To go to his door and ask for him would likely end with the local law enforcers poking around.”

  
“Feed them to the wraith upstairs.”

  
“I think you’ve forgotten what the phrase ‘lie low’ means in your old age,” Raistlin said scathingly. The wraith was one of the old Guardians of the Tower of Palanthas. Raistlin and Dalamar between them had tamed it when it fell through the fireplace a few days ago, but it was still more volatile than either of them remembered, and so the wraith was currently banished to the attic with the two mages sleeping in shifts.

  
Dalamar bristled at the insult. “Still, from the stories I heard about your youth, I would have thought you’d be the first to warn the Dursley’s about what they are doing to their nephew.”

  
Raistlin looked up at this and shot Dalamar a dark look. “My mother has nothing to do with this. Besides, if you look closer, you’ll note that they are abusing both children with their inadequacy.”

  
“Oh?”

  
“Whenever Harry performs any form of wild magic, they occupy their son with luxuries so that he stops paying attention to his cousin. Harry is kept away from him until just before the point it becomes suspicious.” Raistlin shrugged, “I doubt they truly realise what they are doing but if an agreement isn’t reached in the next few years they will have a fat, spoiled brat for a son and a vengeful, possibly sadistic tormentor for a nephew.”

  
“All the more reason to go and at least speak with them,” Dalamar maintained.

  
“By all means, Dalamar, go ahead,” Raistlin said with a wave of his hand in the direction of number 4.

  
Dalamar grit his teeth. “Perhaps I will.” The dark elf span on his heel and pausing at the door long enough to magically alter his clothes from his black robes into a dark suit with a disguise spell, the magic extending to change his pointed ears into the curved one of an average human. Dalamar disliked the need to hide his ears, but seeing as there was no obvious elven community anywhere, he really didn’t have much choice, considering the company he was about to attempt to entertain.

  
As Dalamar walked down the street he noted Vernon’s car in the drive, and considering the Dursley’s walked hardly anywhere, the elf was fairly certain someone was home. He felt unexpectedly nervous knocking on the door to number 4 and hurriedly quashed the emotion as he heard the bolt in the door click and was greeted by the walrus-like Vernon Dursley.

  
“Whatever it is you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he said gruffly, moving to close the door.

  
“I’m not selling anything,” Dalamar said quickly, resisting the urge to hold the door with his arm. He was trying to be civil. “I actually just wanted to talk to you for a moment about your son.”

  
“Dudley?” Vernon paused, a deep frown pulling his thick eyebrows together and shading his eyes. “What business of yours is he?”

  
“Perhaps we should do this inside?”

  
“No.” Vernon opened the door wider, saying loudly. “Ah yes! The car’s a beauty isn’t it? Company thing you know, come, I’m happy to show you it!” He gave Dalamar a non-too-gentle shove in the direction of the large, gaudy (at least in Dalamar’s opinion) vehicle and added in an undertone, “Get on with it before I change my mind and report you for harassment.”

  
Dalamar explained quietly what he and Raistlin had discussed regarding the two boys, occasionally taking the large man’s lead and remarking about a few of the car’s features, making note of the things that were genuinely interesting. Vernon clearly didn’t like what he was hearing if the throbbing vein in his forehead and tightness of his lip was any indication.

  
“There is no such thing as magic,” Vernon growled with all the venom of a rabid dog. “And if you ever come near my boy, I shall have you arrested. Now get off my land!”  
Dalamar bowed respectfully, loudly thanked Vernon for allowing him to look at his car and returned to number 64, announcing his return by swearing violently in Elven and smacking his fist into the wall.

  
Raistlin was where Dalamar had left him, though the Sudoku lay complete on the arm of his seat. The younger mage had been waiting on him then.

  
“You failed I gather?” Raistlin said unnecessarily.

  
“He’s a bigoted moron and I truly pity his children.”

  
Raistin smiled, “You’re awfully emotional for an elf.” Raistlin also spoke Elven and knew exactly what Dalamar really thought of Vernon.

  
“I’m a dark elf. I am not limited to their petty constraints.”

  
“Nor their polite vocabulary,” Raistlin added drily. He stood up and placed a hand on Dalamar’s arm as he passed. “The boy is still young, his magic weak. There’s plenty of time.”

  
Dalamar watched his old teacher leave and make his way up the stairs before falling backwards to sprawl over the entirety of the sofa. For long moments, Dalamar stared at the ceiling, Raistlin was right of course, Harry was in no danger from his magic yet, but the general ignorance of all non-magic users towards those gifted with the art irked Dalamar to no end.

  
The unused television set in the corner of the room caught Dalamar’s attention and the dark elf chose to occupy himself with attempting to fathom the strange device. After much button-pressing, Dalamar at least had the thing turned on and returned to the sofa to watch something called ‘Crackerjack’. Dalamar guessed that the play, or whatever it was, was designed for children, but it was enough to occupy him for a time.

 

* * *

 

That night, Harry lay on his bed in his cupboard and pondered for what felt like the millionth time about Mr Majere’s offer to live with him instead. He already had another man living with him, who Aunt Petunia had found out through the postman was called Dalamar Argent and was generally considered by the neighbourhood to be the old man’s carer. Harry had tried asking why Mr Majere would need a carer. Dudley suggested perhaps he was crippled, since he occasionally went out with a large staff, though in Harry’s opinion, the man walked just fine without it. Dudley then said it must be something wrong with his head.

  
Uncle Vernon seemed certain that the situation was the other way around, that Mr Argent was crazy and that Mr Majere was looking after him. Perhaps a son-in-law or a previously adopted child returned home. Aunt Petunia was particularly taken with the rumour from down the road that both men were druggies and that Mr Majere grew all manner of substances in his garden.

  
Would Harry want to live in a place like that? He supposed it couldn’t be that bad, the police never seemed to go round, no matter how often Dudley broke the windows that would mysteriously become fixed overnight (which was something used by the neighbours to fuel the druggie rumour, though Aunt Petunia ignored the mention of her ‘Diddy Dums’). It didn’t smell bad as near as Harry could tell, not like Mrs Figs, which stank of cat wee and was duller than his history homework. Living somewhere with the risk of explosions and arrest and all the other things Harry had heard about drug dealers sounded fascinating.

  
He went to sleep dreaming of high speed car chases and the idea of living somewhere where he could be called ‘Harry’ not ‘boy’.


	4. Of Wizards and Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so some proper Harry/Raistlin+Dalamar interaction here, AKA plot, which is good.
> 
> If anyone's curious, Dalamar is 121 and Raistlin is 32, because it's debatable if Raistlin was alive in the Abyss and considering what cannon Raist is like in his 20's, at 68, I'd probably turn him into either a basket of unconjoined limbs for Dalamar to cart around, or provide him with either rheumatism or some other joint problem. Neither of which would be fun for him, or overly useful.

Chapter 4 - Of Magic and Wizards

  
Raistlin Majere was not a drug dealer, Harry discovered at age seven, running to the man’s house when fleeing the Dursley’s, particularly Uncle Vernon, after the plates they had been eating dinner from mysteriously broke and a chicken drumstick smacked Dudley in the eye all by itself. Ordinarily, Harry would flee to the local park and hide there until sufficient time had passed and Uncle Vernon’s ire subsided somewhat. But for whatever reason today, Harry’s feet had carried him to number 64.

  
Harry was surprised to find Mr Majere still used his fireplace, Uncle Vernon had replaced number 4's with an electric one long ago, relying on the radiators for any other heat. Number 64 however, seemed to be devoid of radiators.

  
"Drink, Harry?" Raistlin offered, gesturing for Harry to take a seat in the living room.

  
"Um, no thank you, Mr Majere." Harry sat on the far end of the sofa, found his attention drawn to the bookshelf near the fireplace. Harry thought Mr Majere must speak lots of languages, since he couldn't read most of the titles. Uncle Vernon had said Mr Majere was probably foreign though. Maybe the books were in his native language?

  
Raistlin followed Harry's gaze, "You can look at them if you like, I've read them many a time." He'd yet to ask Harry why the boy had ended up at his door, but it wouldn't take much to guess. The mage surveyed the boy for a long moment, his golden eyes focusing on the cheap plastic rimmed glasses Harry wore. Particularly the heavily sellotaped bridge that indicated the spectacles were likely broken. Raistlin presumed the damage was Dudely's work and that the Dursely's simply couldn't be bothered to spend the money necessary for replacements.

  
"May I look at your glasses?"

  
Startled, Harry took them off sheepishly and held out his spectacles for Raistlin. The mage deftly unwrapped the tape and muttered the words for a mending spell on the two broken halves.

  
"Um, where is Mr Argent?"

  
Raistlin handed Harry back his glasses and threw the sellotape into the fire. "Dalamar's upstairs."

  
"Doing what?" Harry asked tilting his head to one side in curiosity. Taking his glasses back, he was astounded to find they were fixed. "H-how did?"

  
"Magic, very easy when you know how," Raistlin explained taking a chair from the dining table. It wasn't as comfortable as the armchair he preferred, but the wooden chairs of the dining table were easier to move. Raistlin placed it close to the fire, but turned it so he could face Harry better. "As for Dalamar, I have no idea what he doing." Dalamar was having a bath as far as Raistlin knew, though the mage couldn't see how this information would provide anything but distraction for Harry.

  
Raistlin pulled his black robes closer around him as he sat down. Finally, the only magical child he or Dalamar were aware of had actually come to them. Did Harry finally accept his gift? Or was he, as Raistlin suspected, simply trying to avoid his uncle?

  
"Why did you come here, Harry?" Raistlin asked after a long moment that consisted of him watching Harry squirm uncomfortably under his odd gaze.

  
Harry reluctantly lifted his gaze from the table leg to the right of Raistlin to the mage's face. "I um, I smashed the Dursley's plates at dinner just now."

  
Raistlin raised an eyebrow. "Did you?" The tone wasn't judging, but curious and Harry did a double take. The boy stared at Raistlin in disbelief. "Do you believe in magic, Harry?" Raistlin tried a new approach.

  
Still very confused and beginning to think coming here was a bad idea, Harry said, "Well, no. Magic isn't real. Uncle Vernon says so."

  
"So you've never seen anything that lacks any other explanation other than magic?" Raistlin was willing to let the mending spell just now pass Harry's notice. The boy was most likely nearly blind without his glasses and so wouldn't have seen the spell conjoin the broken frame together, and if Raistlin's understanding of the boy's guardians was correct, he'd have made up some story in his mind, such as that his glasses weren't broken in the first place. It was sad really.

  
Harry made to speak and Raistlin put up a hand to silence him. "Just _think_ a moment."

  
Long moments passed and Raistlin was faintly surprised Harry was following his instructions. "I don't know how the plates broke," Harry said breaking the silence with his quiet almost quivering voice, as though he were afraid Raistlin was about to reprimand him for what he'd just said.

  
"Which plates?"

  
"The ones today, at dinner." Harry risked a glance at Raistlin, "I don't know how a chicken drumstick hit my cousin in the face either." Raistlin smirked at the thought of a levitating chicken leg hitting the lump of fat that was Dudley Dursley. Idiotic boy probably thought he just missed his mouth.

  
Harry was smiling too, relaxing somewhat after noticing Raistlin found the incident amusing.

  
"Mr Majere, do you really think that's magic?" Harry asked with a hint of patronisation that Raistlin pointedly ignored.

  
"What would it take to prove to you that magic is real?" Raistlin asked softly, though he was growing impatient. On Krynn, mages may not be liked, but their existence was something everyone accepted, if not something they understood. Here, proving magic was like pulling teeth; long suffering and not always worth the effort.

  
Harry stared at Raistlin dumbfounded. He couldn't understand how you could prove something was real when it wasn't. He frowned and thought on the question a bit, worried that if he didn't come up with something, the old man might get annoyed. Finally, Harry came to a conclusion.

  
"Levitate me." Harry was in fact rather impressed with his idea. All magician's assistants were familiar with the inner workings of tricks, so they could pretend that the magic was real when it wasn't. Levitating involved a harness of some sort, so Harry would be able to prove that it wasn't magic. He'd feel something for certain.

  
"Alright. _Gravitus-Denii_ ," Raistlin held out a hand as he cast the spell and Harry immediately panicked as he felt himself lift from the sofa. He thrashed his arms and legs out wildly, trying to catch on to something. This wasn't supposed to happen! He was meant to feel the pull of fishing wire or something. The spell should have taken longer - Raistlin should have said abrakadabra for crying out loud!

  
"What's going on!" Harry demanded desperately, rolling in the air a good five feet from the sofa now, and barely a foot or so from the ceiling. He was trying to find some kind of apparatus on his body that could explain the levitation, but try as he might there was nothing.

  
"I did what you asked. Now do you believe in magic?" Raistlin answered, a hint of strain in his voice. The vast majority of things Raistlin usually cast spells on were either stationary, inanimate or dead, so it was a struggle to keep the thrashing child level within the bubble of magic Raistlin had created.

  
"Yes! Okay, yes I do, now put me down!" Harry cried still twisting about. Raistlin was all too happy to oblige and cancelled the spell, allowing Harry to fall onto the lumpy sofa face first.

  
"You know, you can do magic too, Harry," Raistlin said coughing slightly while Harry attempted to right himself on the sofa.

  
Harry stared at him. "You're mad. Absolutely bonkers." Harry was terrified. He had to escape. Now!

  
"I did as you asked," Raistlin repeated, watching Harry rise to his feet and head for the door. "Would magic not explain the events you experienced at dinner?"

  
Harry paused and turned back. "Magic isn't real - and it doesn't do that!" he yelled, pointing in the general direction of number 4.

  
"Magic can do everything you can think of and more. And you cannot control your magic," Raistlin said quietly, looking at the fire beside him, which had risen in both height and ferocity. "Kindly get yourself in order before you set fire to my robes." Raistlin eyed the licking flames near the hem of his robes with distain, hoped he wouldn't have to move or cast another spell quite so soon.

  
"I-I'm not doing that," Harry said, staring at the flames in horror. He could feel the heat of the flames from across the room. He didn't want to be here anymore.

  
"Well then I suggest you figure out who is," Raistlin replied drily. The flames swayed violently, charred the edge of the fireplace. The sweat on Raistlin's face was visibly dribbling down his thin face.

  
"What are you doing, Mr Majere! Get away from there!"

  
Raistlin flickered his gaze to Harry. He agreed, he should move, but he had to gamble on this. It might be the only way to make Harry understand. "Have you ever tried breathing exercises?" Raistlin asked drawing upon magic of his own, ready to cast a spell of protection from the flames, should he need it.

  
Harry furrowed his eyebrows, "What? Are you insane! You'll burn!"

  
"You keep calling me mad, and yet I am very certain that if you calm down, the fire will also."

  
"You stop it! You're the wizard!"

  
"And how will you learn if I do everything for you?" Raistlin said with a patience he didn't feel, tilting his head slightly. "Just try, Harry. Come back here, and relax." Raistlin gestured for Harry to come closer, remained in his seat despite his severe discomfort. If Harry didn't calm the flames himself, Raistlin would have to step in. His left side itched painfully as the flames flickered close to him, started to burn him. His sleeve caught alight, the fire quickly eating through the silken fabric.

  
" _Es-dingin lingkaran_!" A burst of cold flew through the room over Harry's shoulder, culminating in the fire becoming crystallized and Raistlin no longer being on fire. Harry was roughly shoved aside as another man dressed in black robes barged into the room, yelling angrily at Raistlin.

  
Raistlin clutched his chilled arm, burnt both by the cold and heat, causing the skin on it to blister painfully. He ignored the irate Dalamar, who had grabbed him by the front of his robes in an attempt to forcibly gain the human's attention. Raistlin however, was still looking at Harry who lay sprawled against the staircase.

  
Dalamar shook Raistlin violently, "Have you completely lost your mind! Since when was burning a way to get apprentices!"

  
Raistlin eyed him reproachfully, "Harry caused the fire, not me."

  
"I am aware," Dalamar said tersely. "What I do not understand, oh knowledgeable _Shalafi_ , is why you thought it a good idea to just sit there!"

  
All Harry wanted to do was get up and bolt it back to the Dursley's, something he'd never thought he could want so much in his life. However, his legs had other ideas, for they weren't co-operating at all. Frozen in place and confused out of his mind, Harry's overstressed body responded in the only way a seven year old could. He curled in upon himself and began to cry.

  
It took both men a while to notice Harry was crying, both because they were still arguing, but also because Harry was being much quieter than either had expected. When they did notice Harry however, Raistlin and Dalamar shared a look. With a sigh, Dalamar set about trying to fix the fireplace, while Raistlin made his way over to Harry and knelt down beside him, placing a hand on the distraught boy's shoulder.

  
"Harry, Harry, it's alright now," Raistlin said softly, stroking Harry's hair comfortingly with his hand, keeping his blistered arm out of the boy's line of sight. Reacting more on an instinctual desire for comfort than any form of logic, Harry barrelled himself into Raistlin's chest, holding onto the front of Raistlin's robes as he bawled into them, causing the mage to cough. Once the short fit had passed, Raistlin held Harry gently, his good hand continuing to stroke the boy's hair until he calmed down.

  
When Harry eventually calmed, he found himself sat on one of the kitchen counters with a handkerchief watching the two mages curiously. Raistlin had applied a soft-smelling salve to his burnt arm and was currently wrapping it in a bandage. Dalamar, after returning the fireplace to how it had been when Harry arrived, was making drinks, his bare feet padding along the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, pushing back a lock of dark, damp hair behind his ear from time to time.

  
"If you can do magic, how come you don't fix your arm with magic?" Harry asked Raistlin, taking a mug of hot chocolate from Dalamar.

  
"Magic is not miracle work," Dalamar told the boy tartly. "Besides," Dalamar shot Raistlin a dark look, "the question should be why he didn't cast a shield charm, or even use that very intelligent brain he supposedly has and move away." The dark elf poured two glasses of wine.

  
"He might not be an elf, but he can still hear," Raistlin replied scathingly as he tied off his bandage. "And I was making a point." Raistlin reached around Dalamar and picked up his wine, grimaced at the taste as he took a drink of the deep red liquid.

  
"Elf? You're an elf?" Harry frowned at Dalamar, "But elves are tiny. They work for Santa."

  
Dalamar, who had taken a sip of his wine, spat it back into the glass. "Firstly, I work for no one. Secondly, elves are usually a similar height to humans, and thirdly, this wine is worse than dwarf piss." He promptly upended his glass in the kitchen sink, followed by the contents of the wine bottle.

  
"It is still better than Dwarf Spirits," Raistlin rationalised, although he too tipped his drink into the sink. It was a shame Dalamar had never been involved in the wine making process in Silvanesti. Still, it wasn't as though either of them sat in the living room waiting for a bottle to fall out of the fireplace.

  
Harry looked from one man to the other bewilderedly. "I-Are you an elf too?" Harry asked Raistlin.

  
"No, I'm human."

  
"That's up for debate," Dalamar said lowly. Raistlin glowered at him.

  
"And you can both do magic?" Harry pressed.

  
"Yes, we are both mages," said Raistlin.

  
Harry pointed back to the living room. "And I can do magic too? I really did that with the fire?"

  
"That's right, and we can teach you to control it," Dalamar smiled.

  
"But how?"

  
"Through discipline and hard work."

  
"No, I mean how can I learn magic with my aunt and uncle?" Harry interrupted the elf.

  
"Your uncle is a problem," Dalamar agreed.

  
"Your aunt on the other hand," Raistlin began, "I think she will be more willing. She is your relation to the Dursley's, correct?" Harry nodded. "Magic is often transferred in the blood, from mother to child," Raistlin explained. "It is likely the gift passed your aunt by, only affecting your mother. Convince her to meet with us when your uncle isn't around, and we shall see if something cannot be arranged."

  
"Were either of your parents mages?"

  
"I am the first of my line, or so I assume," Dalamar said with a shrug. "My parents died when I was young and I did not know my grandparents well."

  
"My mother had the gift, but not my father or siblings," Raistlin answered. Harry nodded and looked into his hot chocolate, appearing deep in thought.

  
"Do you have marshmallows?" Dudley got whipped cream and mini marshmallows on his hot chocolates. Harry was usually lucky if his was made with hot water, let alone if he ever got one at all.

  
Dalamar made a face at the mention of marshmallows. Raistlin smirked, "Dalamar refuses to have them in the cupboards." The fact Raistlin found them too sickly anyway was beside the point.

  
"It's getting late, Harry. When you finish your drink, I suggest you return home," Dalamar said. "While I do not expect your aunt or uncle to worry, you'll be in less trouble returning sooner rather than later."

  
Harry nodded sullenly, sipped at his drink. "Guess so." He took a long drag which smeared his top lip with chocolate. "Um, so, the window, no one comes round like a ninja or something and replaces it then?"

  
Dalamar frowned, "What's a ninja?"

  
"You know, all dressed in black, they have swords and sneak around silently," Harry explained to the two blank faced mages.

Raistlin shook his head and plucked the handkerchief from Harry's loose grip and wiped the boy's face. "We don't have ninjas where we come from," he answered, "as for the window, we use mending charms, like the one I cast on your glasses."

"Oh." Harry looked away and seemed to think on the matter before nodding. "Guess that makes more sense than ninja. But where are you from?"

"The name of our world was Krynn, we lived on the continent of Ansalon," said Dalamar, helping Harry down from the counter top and leading him to the door.

"Never heard of it."

"Maybe you can persuade us to tell you about it sometime." Dalamar opened the front door and as Harry stepped over the threshold, he looked over his shoulder.

"Good night, Harry," Raistlin bid, dipping his head in a small bow.

  
"Night, Mr Majere. G'night, Mr Argent."

  
"May Nuitari watch over you," Dalamar said, closing the door once Harry was halfway down the garden path.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this - I just sorta struggled with writing this chap. I rewrote it twice and then got bombarded with plot bunnies for other things.
> 
> On the plus side, new chapter's up and I did a thing with Harry. So plot is occurring.

Dalamar had been perfectly content for the most part as he lay on the sofa, curtains open, fire gently burning, spellbook in hand. He muttered the words under his breath, perfecting his pronunciation of one spell before moving onto the next.

It was his shift to stay awake, and while he was heavily focused on his work, his attention also encompassed the attic, making sure the Guardian stayed where it had been commanded.

The undead pair of grabbing hands and eyes was very unsettled from what Dalamar could gather. It swirled about the attic in a fury of sorts and had not spoken a single intelligible sentence to either himself or Raistlin as far as Dalamar knew. It _had_ managed a broken collection of words in several languages which had amounted to 'die' and 'warmth' and variations thereof. All Raistlin could distinguish beyond that was that the Guardian spoke with an Istaran accent, something which did little to comfort Dalamar.

There had been rumours, when he had worked for the Conclave, spying on Raistlin. Rumours about the origins of the Guardians of the Tower. They said that they were damned and twisted souls bound to the darkness centuries ago by Fistandantilus, Master of Past and Present. The same man Raistlin claimed to be. Dalamar had never asked Raistlin about the rumours for fear of discovery, nor had he asked the Guardians themselves after taking the title of Master of the Tower when Raistlin had been left in the Abyss, either because he had forgotten about it, or because he assumed it didn’t matter.

Now, however, he rather wanted to know.

Resolving to ask Raistlin when the younger mage awoke, Dalamar closed his spellbook and stood up, intending to go to the kitchen. However, as he turned to the door, Dalamar found himself nose to large, empty, vacant eyes with the Guardian.

“What are-” Dalamar began, hand falling to a pouch at his belt, he didn’t make it in time as the Guardian slashed him with its clawed fingers, wrenching Dalamar’s hand away from the pouch and following up with a blow to Dalamar’s chest that sent the wizard falling to his knees, pain and mind-numbing cold emanating from his wounds.

“Nrughn,” he groaned, turned and scrambled on hand and knee to get away from the Guardian.

Another blow fell on his right thigh, reflexively, Dalamar kicked out and immediately regretted it as a wave of cold went through his foot and ankle. The cold magnified as he felt the Guardian grab his leg before bodily swinging him into the fireplace, which had thankfully been burning low.

The heat seared his side and Dalamar cried out, then choked and coughed as ash filled his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, which meant he couldn’t cast a spell even if his mind wasn’t a flurry of panic, stealing the words of magic from his mind. The cold fear that he couldn’t do anything to defend himself was paralysing, the fact that he was trapped even more so.

Once again the Guardian was upon him and Dalamar couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. His vision started to fade and burst up in black spots as his elven body struggled to cope with the emotional overload. He was going to pass out.

_Well_ , Dalamar thought, _at least death will be peaceful in the end._

The last thing Dalamar saw before he fainted like an overdramatic elven maiden, was the raised hand of the Guardian as it moved to deliver what Dalamar hoped was the final blow.

* * *

 

Harry had been locked in his cupboard for the last three days. Punishment for running off, so Dudley had been told, not that he believed his father. Dudley himself knew he did things that were 'wrong' but he never got told off. Why did his stupid cousin get told off?

Piers said parents tell their kids off because they don't want them getting hurt, or rather, Piers's big sister said that. And while Dudley didn't want to trust the word of a girl, probably the only thing in the world dumber than his cousin, she may have a point. If Harry was in his cupboard, those crazy men at number 64 couldn't get to him. Dudley rode by on his bike almost every day with his friends, and Old Man Majere didn't like Dudley. In fact, both of the men at number 64 gave Dudley goosebumps.

When Dalamar had come round, Dudley had seen from his bedroom. He'd thought the man had come to finally complain about the number of times Dudley had broken the windows (something he did more frequently since he had yet to be punished by anyone for it), and was a little surprised when his dad and Dalamar were talking about the car. Dudley knew Dalamar had seen him though. He'd felt it. He didn't like the feeling, it was the same feeling he got when something weird happened in the house, like Harry's hair growing back, or their dinner moving off the plate all by itself. Dudley knew he didn't imagine these things, even though his parents said otherwise. His parents were lying to him.

_They were lying because they loved Harry more than him._ Something whispered, and Dudley was inclined to agree. They were always telling Harry off, protecting him, whereas they just told Dudley everything was fine. What if the nutters at number 64 murdered Dudley? Would Mummy and Daddy even care?

Dudley growled deep in his throat, an almost inhuman noise emanating. Dudley went for his own bedroom door, cracking his knuckles as he went down the stairs. I'll make them care. Just 'cos Harry has no parents doesn't mean he can have mine!

* * *

 

Dalamar awoke later to a dimly lit room. He wondered at first what had woken him, tried to shift and sit up, only to change his mind with a gasp of pain. The events from earlier came flooding back to him and Dalamar looked about the room warily.

The only light source was near the wall to his right and in turning his head toward it, Dalamar found what had stirred him. The light came from the crystal atop the Staff of Magius which leant against the wall and next to it on a wooden chair sat Raistlin. The mage was hunched over and Dalamar could just make out a handkerchief in the pale hand, spotted with blood. Raistlin’s coughing fit must have woken him. Recognising the tapestry beside his _shalafi's_ head, Dalamar determined they were in Raistlin's room.

“Why aren’t I dead?” Dalamar asked, narrowing his eyes at the human.

The other mage grimaced as he straightened up in his seat. “I suppose I should know not to expect a thank you from you.”

“What, for setting the Guardian on me?” Dalamar growled and shoved himself up by sheer force of will, barely noticing the limp strands of greying black hair that fell across his face, anger dulling the throbbing pain of his injuries.

Raistlin sneered, “Oh yes, because I couldn’t kill you myself if I felt like it.” He lifted a hand and waved it at Dalamar, “Was the glamour purely a pride thing or have you weakened?”

Dalamar clenched his fist, ignored how stark the veins looked against the pallor of his skin and glared at Raistlin.

Raistlin’s lips curved into a wide smile. “By the gods you’re vain,” the chuckle that followed triggered another coughing fit and Dalamar would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a hint of satisfaction at seeing the other man in pain. Raistlin’s robe sleeve fell back from his hand to his elbow while he coughed and Dalamar noted with curiosity that there was a bloody bandage poorly wrapped around his forearm, likely forgotten in an earlier coughing fit. Dalamar himself had been stripped of his robes and also bore bloody bandages over his wounds, but these were carefully bound and were less soiled than Raistlin’s own.

Raistlin wiped his mouth once more and placed the handkerchief in a secret pocket within his robes. He eyed the loose bandage on his arm with distain and sighed as he started to remove it properly, revealing a group of five deep gashes still bleeding sluggishly. He reached over to the bedside and Dalamar watched Raistlin open a small jar and apply a green clumping paste to the wound before wrapping another bandage around it deftly.

“Your bandages might need changing again,” Raistlin noted while he tied the ends of his own securely and shook his sleeve back down.

“Where is the Guardian?”

“Loose about the house. I’ve managed to ward off this room, but I could not prevent you from dying _and_ deal with a rabid spectre.”

“If you didn’t set it on me for one mad reason or another, then why hasn’t it flown off, or attacked anyone else for that matter?” Dalamar didn’t believe Raistlin for a second, and was almost certain his _shalafi_ had freed the creature from the wards that kept it bound to the attic.

“I’ve told you already, it was not me!” Raistlin snapped. “Why would I have it attack both of us?”

“To earn my thanks or pity?” The look of fury Raistlin threw him was enough to persuade Dalamar against that particular thought. “Okay, for my trust?”

“If you trust me, Dalamar, you are more of a fool than my idiot brother.”

Dalamar sighed and put his head in one thin hand, gesticulated with the other, “Alright, I don’t know then.” The movements jolted his wounds and he grunted, causing Raistlin to rise from his seat and move to check them. Dalamar tried to shift away from the burning touch, but the human held him fast. It was only with Raistlin so close that Dalamar realised that it wasn’t a trick of the staff’s light, Raistlin’s skin was golden again. It was perplexing, Dalamar had never figured out the reason for the golden tint to Raistlin's skin in the first place, and had thought it a result of Raistlin's Test. Vaguely, Dalamsr wondered if perhaps his _shalafi_ wore a glamour too, he would not put it past the human to be a hypocrite.

Raistlin ran his hand across Dalamar’s arm, pressing softly against the wounds, eliciting hisses from Dalamar and at one time a yelp. “Your shoulder wound’s opened again.” Raistlin noted dispassionately.

“I’m fine,” Dalamar complained as Raistlin began to unwind the bandage.

“The wounds are from the Guardian, they need seeing to. Or would you rather end up like Kit?” Raistlin said harshly. Kit, or Kitiara, was Raistlin’s half-sister who had died after the Guardians of the Tower had attacked her when she attempted to infiltrate the Tower of Palanthas and kill both Dalamar and Raistlin many years ago. Considering the painful way that had gone, Dalamar shook his head and remained still, thinking upon all Raistlin had said while watching the mage deal with his wound.

“If the Guardian attacked of its own accord; why?” Dalamar wondered, a deep frown pulling at the taught skin of his face. He had lost centuries after fighting with the other wizards against Chaos, trying to find his weakness. Following that dreaded battle, he had spent months in a space between life and death, with only his girlfriend at the time, Jenna, to take care of him. She won him from death, but at a price. His skin, once a light tan was now frightfully pale and wane, the blue veins raised and stark against his hands. His hair was flecked with grey, held nothing of its former shine, hanging limp and lifeless about his shoulders. He looked old, and he hated it. It was unnatural for elves, and to make it worse, at that time he couldn’t access his magic. Jenna had told him the magic had been lost, and indeed, the moons had left Krynn’s sky when he'd looked out the Tower window.

He had raved and yelled and destroyed for a long while after that. Cried for the loss of his magic, screamed himself hoarse and smashed much of the Tower’s décor. Jenna had left at some point. He remembered her, with a bruised eye and harsh red marks on her arms, telling him that she was leaving. That she wouldn’t return.

The time between that moment and his falling into Raistlin’s front room was something Dalamar hadn’t measured, time being a more trivial thing to elves than it is to humans. He had however, made a habit of trying to cast a disguise spell every time he awoke, to cover the unnatural pain Jenna could never understand. That Raistlin was now seeing.

Back then, each failure had been a punch to the gut. Waking up, feeling the aches of age, the emptiness of a world in which magic had left. To look at all the wondrous objects that had been left behind by wizards either long dead or too powerless to use their own creations.

As soon as Raistlin finished his work, Dalamar pulled back and spoke the words of magic that would hide his hideous form. His body filled out and became lightly toned, his hair gained some life and most importantly, the magic burned in his blood, warming his body, comforting him in a way no mortal creature could hope to accomplish. Dalamar had the magic again now, and he would personally wreak havoc on anything that tried to take it from him.

Dalamar scanned the room once more and located his robes strewn over the edge of the bed. Picking them up, Dalamar slowly pulled his robes on, pointedly not looking at Raistlin as he did so.

“How did you get me up the stairs?” Dalamar wondered, more to himself.

“Magic of course,” Raistlin replied, “As for the Guardian, I have theories, but nothing seems to be overly plausible.” Raistlin seemed neither concerned nor surprised by Dalamar’s return to the glamour, taking his seat with little fuss, his mirror-like hourglass eyes giving away nothing of his inner thoughts. “It left a while ago. Though I haven't heard any screaming, so I can only assume it has left the neighbourhood."

Dalamar frowned, pulling his long hair out of his robes. "Odd behaviour. I've never known the Guardians to stray too far. Unless... Are you or I no longer its master?"

Raistlin frowned at Dalamar and opened his mouth to give a (more than likely) snide remark, however, his words were drowned out by a loud thump from downstairs.

Dalamar asked, eyebrows furrowing. "The Guardian?"

Raistlin was on his feet, swiftly moving around to his bedroom door. "No. A Live One."

Well, Dalamar hadn't expected that. Pulling his boots on swiftly and replacing the dagger he kept in the left one, Dalamar hurried down the stairs as quick as his wounds would allow, loath to use any magic should he require it to defend himself later.

By stench alone the elf could discern where the Live One was and that it was no illusion, festering on the living room carpet as it was. Dalamar lifted his sleeve over his nose and mouth, needing a moment to adjust to the bleeding, misshapen mass.

Raistlin knelt beside the lone Live One. "How did you get here?" he demanded, causing the creature to reel back on its malformed arms as best it could.

"W-water," it garbled. "Fell... I f-fell in water..."

Both mages knew it must be referring to the pool in the Chamber of Seeing, a large room created by Raistlin when he took residence in the Palanthas Tower of High Sorcery.

With a frown, Dalamar sidestepped the two and placed an arm into the fireplace. He had done this before on a couple of occasions and as always, the effect was the same; his hand pressed firmly against the brickwork and felt nothing but the wretched polluted air of this world, rather than the cool, clean air of Krynn.

The elf curled his fingers into a fist. It all seemed very one-way. But why?

"Had to warn, Master-"

Dalamar startled and turned his attention back to the Live One. "Warn of what?"

"Ghoul. Not of Tower." The Live One began to quiver and a more pungent stench filled the room. Dalamar swallowed back the urge to gag.

"What do you mean 'not of the Tower'? Where else could it be from?" Raistlin frowned.

"D-d-d-dunno!" the Live One wailed, "But bad! It hurt Masters, then take b-boy..."

"Boy?" Dalamar repeated.

"Boy w-with dark-k, he, he attttacked by b-boy with g-ghoul..."

"So then it _is_ attacking the neighbourhood," Dalamar noted dispassionately. He moved to leave the room. Random dead humans were not his problem.

Thunder sounded and the ground gave such a sudden, violent shudder that Dalamar was sent tumbling head first into the sofa, swearing loudly as his shoulder took a second beating. Turning to Raistlin, Dalamar found the other man sitting up shakily, looking just as lost as Dalamar was. The Live One appeared to have narrowly avoided receiving Raistlin's knee to its head and was forced to drag itself back once more as Raistlin got up and yanked the curtains apart.

Cradling his arm, Dalamar came over to join the human. The dark swirling mass at the top end of the street was off-putting to say the least. People from the neighbouring houses had also been disturbed and began filing into the street, children and adults alike pointing at the darkness.

The urge to tell the world to go end itself elsewhere so that he could sleep was an enticing one for Dalamar, and something he suspected Raistlin was also thinking. Reluctantly, Dalamar asked, “That’s number 4 under the cloud isn’t it?”

Raistlin groaned and thumped his forehead against the window in answer.

* * *

Harry’s cupboard burst open at a thought. His mother yelled at Harry not to bang the door. While Harry tried to explain that he didn't open his door, and that it just opened by itself _like magic_ , Dudley used his father's yelled response to descend the stairs silently. He cursed his current body; fat, lumpish, noisy. The only advantage it had over his ethereal one was the warmth of life that gave him focus to use his powers.

Dudley reached the bottom of the stairs and circled around to see Vernon and Harry having an argument about the door. Casting it a cursory glance, Dudley realised he'd splintered it, denting the wall and displacing the top door hinge. Harry turned his head to face him and almost immediately did his best impression of a deer in headlights. Vernon followed the boy's gaze.

"Dudders?" Vernon frowned. "What are you doing up? Back to bed, lad."

Dudley didn't answer the useless human. He kept his eyes on the boy. The boy with power. Power he didn't know how to use, but Dudley did. He also knew how to acquire it.

Vernon tried to catch his attention again and when Dudley continued to ignore him, Vernon grabbed his arm. This annoyed Dudley. He glared at the stupid human and flung his arm out, throwing the human back. Even though this was only the body of a child and Vernon was a huge man, Dudley easily caused the man to fly through the air, stopping when he collided with the kitchen counter. Petunia shrieked in fright and ran to her husband.

"D-Dudley... what are you doing?" Harry stammered. The boy had backed into his cupboard, looking at his cousin fearfully. Dudley felt his lips contort. It had been many long centuries since he had been capable of smirking, and if Harry's reaction was anything to go off, he hadn't quite remembered how to do it. This made Dudley laugh as he grabbed Harry by the hair and dragged him from the cupboard.

He threw Harry through the front door. He would need space for this. Around him humans piled into the streets and behind him Petunia wept. It was loud, obnoxious and highly unflattering.

The kitchen sink exploded, sending shards of plastic, metal and broken pottery all over the place. Even from this distance, Dudley could smell the blood pouring from gashes on Vernon and Petunia. He smiled. They would satisfy his appetite nicely when he was done tearing the power from Harry. After that, he would go after the fool Black Robes from earlier. They would be tired, injured, and he whole and hale. It would be so easy...

The possessed boy had already begun chanting by the time the two Black Robes arrived, the spidery words of magic sounding wrong on Dudley’s tongue as an aura of strong magic pulsed around the two children.

Dalamar sighed, looking all for the world like he’d rather face the Catacysm. Raistlin didn’t look much more enthusiastic, but acted quickly; removing a large emerald from one of his pouches and lobbing it at Dudley’s head. It smacked the boy dead between the eyes and sent him reeling back, breaking the spell. The child swore, regaining his balance and glaring at the two, blood falling into his eyes from the deep cut Raistlin had given him.

He shrieked and pointed his hand at the pair, lightning jumping from his fingertips. The two wizards dived to the side, electricity careening over their heads.

“Alright. I’m definitely going kill him,” Dalamar grunted, getting up and sweeping his long hair from his face with his good arm.

“Not if I beat you to it. That little shit’s been the bane of my life for almost a year now,” Raistlin smirked, and Dalamar found himself grinning back. They had expected Harry to be housing the spectre, to find it was Dudley was a pleasant surprise.

With a flash of his hand and quickly muttered words, Raistlin let loose his own spell, sending jets of fire at Dudley who blocked with a shield spell. Dalamar acted next, summoning a monstrous being and having it charge the boy. As the elf expected, Dudley tore control of the monster from him, but the effort expended in doing so left Dudley open to another strike from Raistlin.

Ordinarily, the two black robes would rather have not joined forces, but it made sense, and even though they had never battled side by side, they were an effective team. Raistlin was used to casting into battle and so easily timed his blows around Dalamar's more flashy displays of magic, the elf clearly trying to appear more threatening, even as it was obvious to everyone around that his arm still wasn't functioning properly and clearly causing him a fair amount of pain.

As the art of casting magic required absolute focus from the three battlers, none of them noticed the people around them. Many were neighbours of the Dursely's and reacted with abject fear as bolts of magic and debris from the battle were strewn around. Others from further down the estate commented on the realistic film effects and chastised the Dursely's for being inconsiderate and not informing them of the disruption. Yet there was one figure in the amassing audience that understood the gravity of what was happening. Arabella Figg watched the display with open terror and shuffled off to report on what she had seen, vaguely wondering if memory charms would be enough here.

Harry laid unconscious and forgotten in the garden, each spellcaster fighting for their lives and not having the time to dedicate any thought to the boy. Well, until Raistlin tripped over Harry’s body and almost lost his right hand to a fireball. Irritably, the mage muttered a teleportation spell and sent Harry away.

Dalamar snickered, “Mind the bodies won’t you?”

“Maybe I should add your corpse to the pile? I’d certainly give _that_ wide berth.” Raistlin ducked another blast from Dudley and fired a web spell.

“Such a kind _Shalafi_ ,” Dalamar said with a grin, sarcasm dripping from the words. Elven instincts kicking in, Dalamar didn’t even look as he dodged a bolder thrown by Dudley. Raistlin sent it back at the boy with a couple of words. “Cover me for a moment will you?” Without waiting for an answer, Dalamar moved behind Raistlin, muttering quickly under his breath.

Raistlin swore and reluctantly stayed there, only able to catch a handful of words before hurriedly blocking a spell with a golden hand and following up with a shield spell when Dudley threw next door’s chimney at them. The feat left Raistlin panting and shaking slightly with exhaustion.

The crackle of electricity was Raistlin’s only warning. He barely got out of the way as Dalamar threw a lance made of pure lightning at the boy. Dudley tried to dodge too, and the bolt smacked into his shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain. As the volts wrack through it’s small, fat host, the creature inside Dudley reeled in anger. They were supposed to be weak, easy to defeat, even without the other boy’s power. But the Black Robes had gathered themselves against it, took the boy away and were _winning_. It shouldn’t be possible and it was driving the creature mad.

It also knew though, that by losing, it could be killed by the Black Robes. If it fled now, there would be a chance of life. Yes, it could sense the weakness in the two growing, but that last blow had disorientated it, it couldn’t control the boy’s body properly. It would lose. Better to leave and regather, than stay and die.

Raistlin coughed then looked from the exhausted Dalamar, who was bent over, hands on knees and breathing heavily, to the boy flailing against a wall. It was an unexpected, yet powerful bit of magic and clearly Dudley and the thing inside of him were struggling to cope. He went forward to end the creature but had barely taken a step before a dark aura seemed to surround Dudley as the creature made itself visible, though not tangible. It was leaving its host, Raistlin realised, though he could do little about it. Killing an ethereal creature when it was possessing a physical form was much easier than when it wasn’t. It required specific spells and though Raistlin could stand, he was tired. He didn’t have enough energy to cast the spell, and he bet the creature knew it too. All they could do was watch as the creature left, leaving a broken, twitching boy and a huge amount of destruction in its wake.

The street was in absolute shambles, broken walls, overturned cars-turned make shift shields, once luscious and perfect gardens were now a curious mix of dirt and tarmac and occasional shards of pottery. Ambulances and police sirens blared in the distance, but Raistlin tuned them out, turning to Dalamar.

“We should leave.”

Dalamar cast a glance around him and saw the occasional person in a robe flit through the crowd. Each one brandished a thin wooden wand, and from the sheer impracticality of it, Dalamar decided they were either taking the mick or were perhaps wizards of this world. He pointed them out to his _shalafi_ , watching in curiosity as they waved their wands at various humans apparently leaving them in a daze and moving onto the next.

“Somehow I don’t think they would take our side,” Raistlin answered, noticing several of the ‘wizards’ eyeing them warily. He coughed again. The sound was harsher this time as the threat of battle dissipated and his body began to let its hurts be more known.

“So you assume they won’t know where we live?” Dalamar replied scathingly.

Raislin shrugged, “We can ward the house. We need rest, and I honestly don’t believe these people will allow us it.” Reluctantly, Dalamar had to agree.

“Can you teleport us? I think I can manage some of the warding, but not if I have to transport myself.” It didn’t matter about admitting weakness right now. They were both as bad as one another, honesty would probably keep them safer.

Raistlin nodded tersely and was still for a moment as he gathered his remaining energy. The space around the two men distorted and when it cleared, they were in the spare room. The room was dark, but Dalamar’s elven vision allowed him to see well enough, even without colour. Beside him the younger mage crumpled almost immediately and Dalamar sighed. He bent and checked the man. Unconscious but breathing. Great, now it was Dalamar’s job to ward the house. He considered the slightly easier task of using Raistlin’s room, which was already warded and would likely stay so for another few hours at least. He took a step and found something odd beneath his foot. Dalamar looked down and groaned.

He had just stepped on Harry Potter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raistlin and Dalamar spend a lot of time talking and get into trouble. Also, Harry won't fucking move. Le sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. uh hi. I know it's been a while, but have a new chapter ^_^
> 
> Should hopefully have Harry where I want him in the next couple of chapters and then things actually related to Hogwarts can happen.
> 
> If you find any errors/get confused/thinking I'm talking bollocks, by all means feel free to tell me and I may or may not do something about it.

Chapter 6

 

Morning sun rays shone into the spare room of Number 64, illuminating the bed and catching Raistlin right in the eyes. Curse the open curtains.

He rolled over, out of the beam of light and coughed. He was still on the floor where Dalamar had left him, with Harry sprawled not a foot away. Raistlin didn't know why he'd ended up in the spare room, rather than his own, warmer, darker room. He presumed he must have passed out and slowly moved to sit up. The events of the previous night came back to him and startled Raistlin into full wakefulness. He muttered words of magic quickly under his breath and sighed in relief. His wards remained undisturbed. No one was inside his house.

He pulled himself to his feet, picking up the Staff of Magius as he went. His bones ached, and his mind was fuzzy from the sudden, unnecessary, adrenaline, which was fading now. He needed rest. He went to the open door, Harry's presence forgotten. He didn't want to deal with that right now. He wanted his bed.

Dalamar was sprawled face down on the mattress, asleep. Raistlin was confused as to why the elf was there, but equally irked to find the man where he didn't belong, and so batted Dalamar's overhanging leg with the butt of his staff. Mumbled swearing in elvish answered him.

"Get up." He hit Dalamar again, in the shoulder this time. The elf's leg shot out like a mule, with Raistlin barely dodging it.

"What?!" Dalamar hissed, rolling over and cradling his injured arm.

"You should put that in a sling," Raistlin said dispassionately, gesturing for Dalamar to move over. Settling beside the disgruntled elf, he added, "What happened?"

Dalamar rolled his eyes, "We arrived, you collapsed, I almost used the boy as a rug - why _is_ he here by the way?" he reeled off, pausing to give Raistlin an accusing glare.

Raistlin waved his hand irritably, "After that, what happened?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"An accident, I assure you. Forget the boy. _What happened_?"

Dalamar shrugged his good shoulder, "Nothing that I know of. We got here, you passed out and I left both of you to stay in here." Dalamar rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I was tired, I fell asleep almost immediately."

"So you left the boy and I alone, to possibly be captured by other wizards?"

"... Yes." Raistlin chuckled, impressed, and he found, perversely proud. Dalamar raised an eyebrow, "I am presuming that no one has shown up?"

"Correct."

"Excellent," Dalamar stood up with a slight groan, arching until a crack echoed from his spine. "In that case, I am going back to bed - my own bed." With that the dark elf swept past, his black robes billowing around his ankles. He shut the door behind him.

Raistlin yawned. The battle last night had sapped his strength. He cast a basic cantrip on the door, securing it. After removing his robes, Raistlin slipped under the covers and drifted off, the fingers of one pale hand brushing the Staff of Magius.

 

* * *

 

When Raistlin awoke, it was some several hours later. The sun was moving into afternoon and the house was just as quiet as before his sleep. It was cold, none of the fires were lit, causing Raistlin to cough as he got out of bed. Grumbling under his breath as he went, the mage made his way downstairs, pausing when he came across a puddle of sick. Turning his head to see the Live One Raistlin glowered at it. They were so messy, his failed creations.

"N-not me, Masterrr," it groaned defensively. "B-boy."

"Boy?" Raistlin frowned. Harry. He sighed, "Where is the boy?"

"Gon-ne. Ran."

Unsurprising. Live Ones weren't like flowers by any stretch of the imagination. Raistlin rolled his eyes and waved a hand at the mess, vanishing it with a word. Looking back to the disgusting, leaking creature, Raistlin wasn't sure what to do. It was hardly as though he had another Pool of Seeing he could leave it with, though it would not impossible to make another.

It wasn't a bad idea, but the preparation would take a while, and right now, he had other things to be doing. The other wizards he and Dalamar had spotted last night, for that was what they must have been, what had they been doing? It hadn't looked like wards... and the dazed looks on the people's faces afterwards...

He cast himself back, using his magic, saw the scene again, but from different angles, heard words he had not originally. Legimens. Obliviate. He frowned opening his eyes and cupping his chin in thought. What did they mean? Those were no words of magic he had heard before. But yet clearly magic had occurred. Interesting.

And so that lead Raistlin to the question of how would he research this? Clicking his tongue in annoyance at his own non-omnipotence he moved swiftly and picked up the broken creature, hooking his fingers through its exposed, bloody ribs. It yowled in his grip, but soon silenced as Raistlin spoke. "Do you remember when I first made the Pool of Seeing?" he asked it. He had made Live Ones before and after the pool's creation and hadn't cared to tell the difference between the ones that had watched him create it and the ones he had banished to the hidden floor thereafter. They were all failures in his mind. All reminders of what he couldn't achieve. What he now knew he could _never_ achieve. He was no god, no giver of life. Only a taker.

"Y-yes!" it squawked.

They made their way into the kitchen and Raistlin opened the door to the cellar. "Good. You can begin the rune work while I gather components." With that he deposited the Live One in the centre of the floor and turned his back, going back up the stairs and shutting the door.

Going back into the hallway, Raistlin passed a weary looking Dalamar rubbing his face with his good hand. He didn't greet the elf, nor did Dalamar acknowledge him except to grunt, "Tea?" as he set the kettle to boil. Raistlin shook his head and went into the front room, beginning to draw up a list of things he would need in a mostly blank notebook.

Dalamar joined him a few minutes later, to Raistlin's surprise. Glancing up, he found Dalamar levelling him with a serious look over his steaming mug. "Yes?"

"Do you find anything odd about Harry?"

"How so?"

Dalamar smothered a yawn in his hand before replying. "I find myself significantly more attached to him in his presence. I still feel it lingering, and yet there's nothing to suggest he has the skills for such a powerful charm."

Now that the dark elf mentioned it, Raistlin found himself agreeing. Yes, he did feel for the boy's poor life situation, but offering him solace? That didn't feel like something he would normally do. And that doesn't even cover the fact both of them had gone to protect Harry the other night.

Raistlin frowned. He didn't like being manipulated, especially after the hell he had gone through with Fistandantilus.

"Do you know how he's doing it?"

Dalamar shook his head. "I was rather hoping you would have some insight."

Casting his mind over all the facets he knew regarding charming spells, Raistlin postulated, "We can sense his magic, which while generally not strong, appeared to be desired by that ghoul. Perhaps then, the fact it possessed that lump Dudley means that Harry is already spoken for."

"Something is protecting him. But what?" the elf guessed, taking a sip of his drink. "I've never felt anything particularly malicious or caring from him and protection is not something a neutral party would have need for-." He was interrupted from his thoughts by a knock on the door.

"Lo and behold, the prodigal son returns," Raistlin commented dryly, gesturing for Dalamar to remain seated. Raising a hand, Raistlin had the door to their home open of its own accord and hurried footsteps and Harry's frantic breathing could be heard as the boy slipped inside and proceeded to slam the door shut behind him. "Don't slam the door," Raistlin hissed.

He hadn't expected Harry to have heard, yet within moments, a shaking Harry appeared in the doorway, mumbling an apology. "T-there's people following me," the boy admitted.

"And you brought them here?" Raistlin shot angrily, making Harry shy away. Dalamar for his part, shot the boy a dark look.

"Five, one with prominent strength," he relayed to his old _Shalafi_ in Elven. "That one's heading for the door."

Raistlin gave the barest of nods. Neither he or Dalamar moved as the door opened a second time, though Harry scampered over like a terrified puppy, inserting himself in the space beside the back of  Raistlin's chair and the wall.

The door shut softly and an elderly man with pinstriped trousers under purple robes appeared. He had a kindly face that Raistlin immediately took a disliking to, and odd, twinkling blue eyes set behind half moon spectacles. The wizard bowed and introduced himself. "Good day, my name is Albus Dumbledore. I wonder if I might have a word with young Harry there?"

A side long glance to Harry showed the boy cowering backward. "Looks like he doesn't want to talk to you," Raistlin pointed out.

"Very well," Dumbledore settled himself into a seat on the sofa uninvited. "Then I shall speak and you may all listen. Harry, you need to return to your aunt and uncle's house. They are very worried about you." Dalamar scoffed but said nothing, preferring to take another sip of his drink. Unperturbed, Dumbledore continued, "Healers have been summoned and the home of the Dursley's  has been repaired. Your relatives are fine and aware none of this is your fault, Harry." He gave Dalamar and Raistlin a suspicious look, "On the other hand, these two men may have released the creature that attacked you in the first place."

"That's a bold statement," Dalamar said, "Do you have evidence to back it up?"

"I'm afraid it is not the matter of evidence, Mister Argent, but the fact you have broken our rules on magic."

"I don't recall giving you my name," Dalamar sneered in return.

"What rules are these?" Raistlin asked, trying to work out what specifically they had apparently done wrong.

Dumbledore gave a faint smile. "It states in the Statute of Secrecy Act, that magic may not be cast in the presence of Muggles. You were both blatantly seen using magic by the entire street, causing a great deal of upset-."

"Muggles?"Harry interrupted, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore entered the room.

"That is the name we use for those who cannot use magic," Dumbledore explained patiently, before turning his attention back to the two wizards. "Outside are four Ministry representatives that would have you called to trial. As circumstances have it, the decision has been made to allow you a warning, as you have not done anything that would constitute a prolonged sentence, nor can we find records of your existence."

"So, what is it you want from us?" Raistlin asked, his patience growing thin. There was a lie in here somewhere, and he was curious as to why.

"We merely wish to keep an eye on you. For you to register with the Ministry of Magic and submit to a few questions from the Investigation Department, so that they may be able to track down whatever creature was released upon the Dursley home," the old man relayed.

Raistlin and Dalamar shared a look. On the one hand, this was entirely invasive and neither of them wanted any part in such things. On the other, the world of Magic was coming to them, was it really something they could turn down?

Nodding almost imperceptively, Dalamar turned to Dumbledore. "If we do so, may we return to our privacy afterwards?"

"Of course. You are not under arrest."

Barely. Still, Dalamar taking lead in the conversation allowed Raistlin the small opening he needed to probe Dumbledore's mind. Nothing deep, too easy to be noticed, but he did gleam base details about the man and his reasons for being here.

"What about Harry?" Dalamar said, turning to the child, "Why did you choose here instead of your home?"

Harry turned wide green eyes to the elf. "I-I was going, but then Mrs Figg said I should go with her, so I did, then he came and made my head hurt, then I was running and came here," Harry explained in a nonsensical rush pointing to Dumbledore, before adding in a smaller voice, "Besides. I don't wanna go back."

"I'm afraid you must, Harry. They are your family and they do care for you." Dumbledore said. "They have put clothes on your back and food in your belly." Whilst not entirely incorrect, Dumbledore's summary was certainly on the liberal side. By the man's ruling, Kitiara was a kind relative and she had abandoned Raistlin at roughly the same age as Harry and later conspired to kill him.

Still, Raistlin needed Harry gone in order to think straight, and it wasn't as though Vernon and Petunia could actually cause him any harm. "You should go back, Harry. It would be unwise to let your aunt and uncle worry so."

Harry's attention snapped to Raistlin as if he had been slapped, betrayal evident in his eyes. Raistlin looked back unwaveringly.

"Go on."

Reluctantly, Harry shuffled out in front of the table and, after another stern look from Raistlin, left, presumably to go back to Number 4.

"Thank you for that. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting you to give him up," Dumbledore said softly a few moments after Harry had gone.

"He keeps turning up," Dalamar shrugged, "It is not our intention to remove him from anywhere."

"This registration you want us to do. How soon will that have to happen?" Raistlin asked.

"I'm unsure, I don't actually work for the Ministry, I was merely brought in as a mediator," Dumbledore explained, "But I imagine sooner rather than later is preferable. An owl will likely be sent soon after I leave, now that you have agreed to the Ministry's terms."

Rising from his seat, Dumbledore bowed once more to the two men. "I hope we need not meet again. Good day gentlemen."

Giving it a few long moments after Dumbledore had left, Dalamar eventually asked, "So, what did you glean?"

"That man, he is a teacher."

Dalamar frowned, "A teacher? What manner of organisation would send a teacher to deal with us? How much do they know?"

"Not much more than he said," Raistlin shrugged. "Dumbledore suspects, but has no proof. We are being given a second chance so to speak. Harry also appears more important than we first thought. I don't know the details as to why Dumbledore came rather than a policeman or something, but he did seem powerful."

"Yes, he was also trying to probe us in return, so it's possible he knows you were reading his mind."

Raistlin shrugged. They would simply have to wait for the Ministry owl and go from there. Perhaps the people there would be easier to interrogate. "Now, returning to Harry. It seems he is much more important than we first realised."

Dalamar didn't look impressed, "If they are watching us, they will likely attempt to stop him from returning to us. Which in a way, makes me even more interested in him," he admitted with a sigh.

"Agreed. But Harry will come anyway. And whatever power is trying to ensnare us must be dealt with."

"What do you suggest?"

Raistlin rolled his bottom between his teeth as he thought. "It does not seem to prevent foul thought, only I suspect, intentions to destroy. Now we are aware of this power, we must find the source."

"And in doing so, gain more power over it," Dalamar added, thoughtful. "I see. And what of this Ministry?"

"I've not heard of them before," Raistlin admitted, "But at least for now we shall have to play by their rules." Evil they may be, but not stupid. Outnumbered and with no information it would be beyond idiotic to rebel.

 

* * *

 

Soon, turned out to be that evening.

While Dalamar was occupying himself upstairs, Raistlin was relaxing in the front room with the evening paper, only to be disturbed by a knock on the window. He ignored it for all of about two minutes before the noise became incessant. Thinking the Dursley brat and his friends were at it again, the mage angrily tore the curtain open, only to be baffled when he came face to beak with an owl on the other side of the glass.

Somehow, he really hadn't expected Dumbledore to be literal about the Ministry sending an owl.

He opened the window and allowed the small Tawny Owl inside, it's amber eyes blankly staring at Raistlin as it thrust it's leg toward him. At least he was used to messenger birds. From what Raistlin knew, most of the common folk weren't, which was curious. Sure, humans didn't defecate everywhere, but it was a better use of their time to leave such a menial job to birds in Raistlin's opinion. He freed the bird of its letter and it flew off once more into the night.

Closing the window and the curtain, Raistlin settled himself down once more to examine the letter. Written on parchment  and the envelope sealed with wax, it was almost welcomingly familiar, except of course he didn't recognise the sigil on the back at all. Snapping the wax seal, Raistlin unfolded the letter and read:

 

_Dear Misters Argent and Majere,_

_On the date Monday the  Seventeenth of August, 1986, at seven thirty six pm, you were both seen casting magic in the presence of no less than thirty Muggles and lead to the Emergency Apparation of a squad of Obliviators in order to calm the panic. This use of magic is a serious offence under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy . However, in light of the circumstances pertaining to the event; the act of saving Mister Harry Potter and his family from the mysterious being Aurors report to have seen._

_We are contacting other Ministry branches throughout the world as the British Ministry of Magic has no record of either of you. To speed this process along, you are invited to register with the British Ministry after your meeting with the Investigation Department and Auror Department regarding the creature that possessed the Muggle Dudley Dursley and attacked Mister Harry Potter. A trial may be held if you are not forthcoming with answers or either Department has reason to suspect you were behind the aforementioned attack and could be a threat to the secrecy of the Magical World at large._

_We thank you for your co-operation and expect to see you at the Ministy of Magic on Wednesday the Nineteenth of August, at 10am. Instructions for getting yourselves to the Ministry are enclosed._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Malfalda Hopkirk_  
_Improper Use of Magic Office_  
 _Ministry of Magic_

 

Looking back into the envelope, Raistlin noticed he had missed a smaller sheet of parchment which indeed did have an address and directions from this very house to the Ministry, as well as a method by which they could secure a car, though Raistlin had no idea what a Galleon was other than understanding it was money, and that sixteen of them was probably far too expensive.

He made Dalamar aware of the letter and the two agreed to teleport to the location in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

The journey into London wasn't overly complex, however, locating the entrance to the Ministry proved very difficult.

"The underground is easier to navigate than finding this blasted phone box," Raistlin gripped, arms crossed in his robe sleeves, leaning on the soot caked wall of a building. "Are you sure you read the map right?"

Dalamar thrust the paper in Raistlin's direction. "It makes no sense, but by all means, prove me wrong." The elf too was frustrated, having walked around the same three hundred square foot of land at least thrice in search of this visitor's entrance and yet none of the red boxes were the right one. None bared the Ministry of Magic sigil, nor reacted to any magic detecting spells they tried.

He looked around while Raistlin twisted and turned the map, gazing over the regular Londoners as they hurried off to jobs or appointments. No one paid them any mind, though they knew from being in Little Whinging that robes were not common attire here. Soon though, Dalamar noticed why.

“ _Shalafi_ ,” Dalamar called, pointing. Raistlin looked up, following Dalamar’s gaze to a couple of purple robed individuals. “They look as though they know the way.”

Raistlin sighed and handed the map back. “Can’t hurt to find out.”

They hurried after the two figures as they rounded a corner into a filthy alley with a half-filled skip. And a phone box. The two wizards they had been following opened the door to the phone box and seemed to drop out of existence after a couple of moments. Well. That looked relatively easy. They stepped inside the booth themselves and frowned at the device.

“’Raise the receiver and dial six two four four two,’” Dalamar relayed, looking back to the instructions for how to access the Ministry. He looked up to the phone. “Maybe the wheel turns?”

Raistlin popped his finger into the first slot and shifted the dial around until it would go no further, removed his finger and watched it spring back to its default position. “Seems that way,” he said, completing the rest of the numbers.

That done, a male voice started up, sounding almost grandfatherly as it spoke. “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

Raistlin and Dalamar shared a look, knowing the voice hadn’t come from the phone so much as the phone box itself. Letting the receiver fall to his side uselessly, Raistlin spoke up, “Dalamar Argent and Raistlin Majere. Registration and meetings with the Investigation and Auror Departments.”

“Thank you,” the kindly old voice replied. “Visitors please take your badges and attach them to the front of your robes.” The device made a worrying set of rattling noises before two badges slid into the metal tray at the bottom of the device. They were small purple things, with their names written in silver along with _Meetings with ARD, Auror Office and Investigations_.

“Visitors of the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the end of the Atrium.”

Raistlin frowned and Dalamar assumed the man was glad he had left his staff at home to eliminate any chance of losing it to these other wizards.

The cement square shifted beneath their feet and began lowering into the ground with an unsettling lurch that spoke of a spell in desperate need of recasting.

“I hope it doesn’t have far to drop,” Raistlin remarked, wincing at the occasional scraping noise of stone on stone as they sank into darkness.

“Yes,” Dalamar agreed drolly, “It would be a shame to fall to our deaths.”

Soon though, a shaft of light began to rise up and both men brought up an arm to avoid going momentarily blind as the two doors slid open with a sharp _ding_ , giving way to a burst of light and the Atrium beyond.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,” the kindly man’s voice intoned and the floor tilted to gently nudge them out onto the dark hardwood floor of the Ministry Atrium.

“Gods this place is ugly,” Dalamar remarked, looking up at the hall’s powder blue ceiling with enchanted golden inlay that shifted around in a complete waste of magic. Floating balls of magical light were made more powerful by refracting off of the golden walls and overly polished floor. “ _You_ make gold look less tasteless.”

Raistlin rolled his eyes, “Oh do shut up. Where’s that blasted desk?” He swept off down the hall, black robes swishing around his ankles. Dalamar followed, though his gaze wandered to observe the odd workings of the magical hub that he assumed was this world’s version of a Tower of High Sorcerery.

Wizards and witches appeared out of fireplaces on the left hand side in some strange form of teleportation involving a flash of green flames and exited in much the same fashion via rows of fireplaces on the right. A large fountain with brass figures stood erect and proud in the centre of the hall, giving Dalamar pause. A wizard stood in the centre, regal in appearance, young, with chiselled cheekbones and wand held high above his head, water shooting from the tip of his and that of a surprisingly beautiful brass witch beside him, the two humans clearly lording it over the other creatures; a centaur with a small bow, water pouring from the arrow tip as he gazed at the humans, some tiny knife-eared creature that looked like a kender stripped naked and before being thrust into a potato sack, and a baby goblin crossed with a kobold. The two creatures, barely coming to the wizard’s kneecap, looked up adoringly at the humans which just added to the worryingly subservient imagery and oh gods, _why_ did the crazy sculptor pick the _ears_ as a logical place for a creature to leak water?! In rather much of a hurry, Dalamar quickly caught back up to Raistlin, yanking up his hood over his pointed ears as he did so.

His fellow archmage didn’t look that comfortable either. The tinkling of water from the fountain was perhaps the least annoying noise, dulled as it was by other noises echoing in the Atrium. From the fireplaces erupted flames with an irritating _fwoosh_. Loud cracks that the two black robes now associated with cars backfiring were coming from all around, as were the echoing _thuds_ of innumerable shoes smacking against the hardwood floor. It reminded Dalamar they were in enemy territory and that Raistlin was socially awkward at best. Blessedly, they soon came to the only desk in the Atrium, seated below a wooden sign emblazoned with gold lettering that read _Security_.

At the desk sat a wizard in robes the same colour as the ceiling reading an enchanted newspaper, the details and pictures shifting around in a way that hurt Dalamar’s eyes. At their approach, the man lowered his paper and sat up straighter, suddenly more attentive.

“Over here, please.” The man waved them over to the end of the desk and raised a long golden rod, thinner than any wand Dalamar had seen, and passed it over first Raistlin, then Dalamar, resulting in a strange series of chimes echoing from the rod when it passed over the elf.

The man looked up at Dalamar, “Can you tell me if you have any active enchantments placed upon you?”

Dalamar didn’t need to look at Raistlin to know the other man was smirking. “An illusion for my appearance,” he replied tightly.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to remove it, Sir. Security protocol,” explained the human, his Cockney accent adding a certain level of disregard for Dalamar’s pride that infuriated him.

“I will not,” he argued, “this is how I should like to appear at all times.”

The man cast a bored look to the badges Dalamar and Raistlin wore and after a moment scribbled down a note and sent it flying off with an enchantment. “Very well, Sir, you needn’t remove the enchantment at this moment, however, I’ve called for an Auror escort to come evaluate you before showing you to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where you will find the Auror Office, Investigations and the Administrative Registration Department. Now, Sirs, wands please.”

“We don’t carry them,” Raistlin spoke up. “Our magic is cast without such things.”

“Come now, gov-I mean-Sir,” the man fumbled. “Everyone has wands. Even Dumbledore carries his with him and he does lots of magic wandlessly.”

Dalamar blinked, recognising the name as belonging to the doddering old fool that had landed them here in the first place. It seemed he had rather the reputation. “Yes, well, we’ve never had need of them,” he said, crossing his arms irritably.

The man obviously didn’t believe them, but was interrupted by a man growling, “What is it? I’m very busy.”

Looking at him, Dalamar was impressed. The man looked as though he had seen many a battle, being covered in scars, giving him a grizzled look despite the dark grey, limp strands of hair falling to frame his face, which looked ghastly, even without the large patch of scar tissue on his nose as though something had taken a chunk out of him. He also walked with a cane on a wooden leg that gave Dalamar paused as it seemed to have a claw foot not unlike the one on their freestanding bath.

His eyes however, were much more interesting. One was a fairly regular eye; brown with a sharp pupil, if a little bloodshot, however, it was the other that interested Dalamar. Larger than the other, stretching the socket in an ugly manner, sat an eye with electric blue iris that couldn’t seem to stay still and roamed all about the man’s field of vision as if with a mind of its own and was projecting an aura of magic all its own Dalamar would have to have been struck stupid not to notice.

The Ministry clerk looked to the new arrival with acknowledgement. “Ah, Mad-Eye. These two are for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The tall one has an enchantment he refuses to remove. Says it’s an illusion for his appearance. Can you verify that as well as search them for wands? They refuse to present.”

“I’m not a lap dog, Fulham,” griped the man, his regular eye, glaring at the man while his other eye span wildly. Mad-Eye seemed to stiffen, his blue eye pausing on Dalamar and the man rotated his body to properly survey the elf, leading Dalamar to believe him nickname apt. “Huh. Pointed ears are real,” he mused, “Real strange. As for the illusion itself, it’s just a glamour of sorts to make him look younger than he is. Though I don’t see why, you’re still a damn sight prettier than me, so take that blasted hood down. People will think you’re a Death Eater or something.”

Fulham looked scandalised, “That’s not funny, Mad-Eye!”

“His family doesn’t take to aging well,” Raistlin responded and damn, if Dalamar could slap that smirk of his face…

Ignoring his co-worker’s outburst, Mad-Eye asked, “And I assume they refuse to give you their wands because they don’t have any on them. Left them at home?”

“Don’t have them,” Dalamar replied, tightening his crossed arm and feeling rather violated.

Moody gave them each a hard look before seeming to shrug it off and waving them. “Come on then, I said I was busy and I meant it, you may as well follow me back to the Office. Bones can sort you out after that.”

Mad-Eye lead them away, seemingly to Fulham’s relief, back down the atrium before taking a right and gesturing to open a lift in the wall much like the one they had entered via, though this one came with a metal caging on the door side which didn’t actually make the thing seem any safer.

“Ministry of Magic, Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,” The voice of the kindly man from the telephone box chimed as the doors opened, giving way to a complex series of corridors primarily populated by flying notes and the occasional wizard.

Moody led them without pause until they reached a door with a plaque on the side reading, _Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head Amelia Bones_. Rapping his cane on the door, he waited until the woman answered, looking irritated as she glared at him through her monocle. “Yes Moody, what is it?”

“Two odd wizards for registration and interrogation. They match the description of the ones we encountered on the Seventeenth.”

Amelia turned her gaze from Moody to Raistlin and Dalamar. “You’ve checked them?” she asked Moody.

“They’re clean,” he confirmed.

“Fine. Come in, Mr Majere, Mr Argent. My name is Amelia Bones and I’ll be questioning you today,” the stern woman explained, stepping back from her door to allow them in, conjuring a second chair to one side of her desk with a flick of her wand as she swept around to the other side after shutting the door behind the two.

Once Dalamar and Raistlin were seated, Amelia waved her wand again and produced a sheaf of parchment to make notes on, reached out and plucked her green feathered quill from a vial of ink. She held the quill tip to the parchment for a moment until it was balanced and spoke, “Wednesday the Nineteenth of August, 1986. Ten thirty-seven a.m. Discourse with witnesses of the event occurring Monday the Seventeenth of August, 1986, seven-thirty six p.m.” The quill moved to record the information as Amelia spoke, easily coping her dictation.

“Names?” she asked the two. “In full please.”

“Raistlin Majere. M-a-j-e-r-e.” The fact he immediately went to spell it out made Dalamar give a small snort.

“Dalamar Argent.”

“Good. Occupations?”

“None at current, for either of us,” Dalamar supplied.

“Are you looking?”

“Not actively,” Raistlin shrugged. “We have the occasional dealings with a girl running a Wicca shop, but it’s nothing overly stable.”

Amelia nodded, seemingly satisfied by the somewhat in depth answer. “Currently, as you come forward voluntarily, this meeting is not being conducted under veritaserum. However, should checking up upon any of the details you provide us today should prove a lie, you may be brought in for questioning by Aurors. Under those circumstances you would be interrogated under the truth serum. Do I have each of your words that you will speak the truth as best you know it?” she asked, adding with a dark look at the quill, “Vocalise please, for the scribe.”

Dalamar inclined his head, “Yes, Madam.” Raistlin grunted a “fine” and it was very apparent, at least to Dalamar, that no, they were going to tell this woman exactly as much as they felt like and not a word more, truth or otherwise. Nor was this meeting entirely private. Mad-Eye was watching them, his electric blue gaze not having left the two black robes since they met, the elf could sense it.

“Good. Now, where do you come from? There are no British records of your registration here and I can’t place our accents.”

Ah. Straight to the point. Commendable. Shame though there wasn’t much of an answer they could give. “Number 64 Privet Drive.”

This caused Amelia to frown, “I know where you live, I want to know where you hail from.”

“Number 64 Privet Drive,” Raistlin replied calmly. “We have always lived there. We just haven’t registered.”

“ _Everyone_ is registered,” Amelia argued, “At birth a magical Trace upon every child so that their magic can be regulated and not displayed to Muggles.”

Dalamar might not know what the Trace was, but he could at least guess it wasn’t so much a country wide, or even worldwide occurrence, as a deliberate, individual, spell placed upon each _known_ magical child. “That is only to witnessed and recorded births. Ours births were not.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, and Dalamar knew he had guessed right, “Be that as it may, I do not believe that you two have ever resided in only that house. You don’t even look the same, you clearly aren’t siblings as you don’t share a name, nor do I believe that you are father and son or in-laws. Either one or both of you is lying.”

“Dalamar is a child of the forest, he arrived in our home through a spell gone awry and rather than send him off to a place he could not accurately describe, or hand him to the relevant authorities, my father allowed him to stay in our home,” Raistlin lied as though he had told the story for years.

“I think that was more he didn’t want a fifteen year old orphan wandering the woods,” Dalamar added with a frown to further fool the woman. Raistlin shrugged and leaned back in his chair, at ease.

“Is that…” Amelia began before she realised a hand was reaching up to her own ear and Dalamar chuckled.

“Oh yes. Our tribe, family, whatever you want to call it. Our ears are cut at the widest point and sewn back together in a pointed fashion. Then they heal that way.” He’d seen it in a tattoo parlour once in the backstreets of London. Why people wanted to look like elves was beyond him, but it was downright useful. “Some of us elongate them with magic. It’s fun.” And that look on Amelia’s face said she _did not_ think it was fun, and was never going to bring the subject up again.

“What do you know of Harry Potter?” Amelia asked instead, clearing her throat harshly.

Dalamar shrugged, “He’s a boy down the road.”

“Lives with his aunt and uncle who are Muggles, but has magic himself,” Raistlin said, shrugging as well. “They don’t get along.”

Amelia blinked. “Is that all?”

“Other than he keeps ending up at our house for reasons beyond our control and understanding?” Raistlin asked, eyebrow arched, “Yes.”

“And what do you know of He Who Must Not Be Named?”

Dalamar furrowed his eyebrows. “Why can’t he be named?” He asked, casting a prestigation cantrip to read her thoughts as she thought about this odd fellow. Hmm… So, there had been a wizarding war that had ended five years ago with this man as the near sole apposing force along with his lackeys, the Death Eaters, which explained Mad-Eye’s dark joke. Still. They were rather pathetic when compared to the Dragonarmies, of which Dalamar occasionally still had nightmares.

And Harry was important because he supposedly brought about the evil wizard Voldemort’s defeat. At the ripe old age of one. Either this world was sorely lacking archmages, Harry was a god avatar, or Amelia was a very powerful witch. Oddly, he found himself wishing the latter was the case.

“There was a curse upon his name. Some believe that to say his name will bring him back,” Amelia sighed, and it wasn’t overly clear if she bought into the ideal. “It says something about your character to actually speak it. Much as it says a lot to _not_ know it. Did you not even hear of the deaths?”

“Only what was on the news. We don’t get your newspapers,” the elf replied, having spotted enough of the weird moving papers on their way to the Auror office, tucked under arms or poking out of bags, to assume they were commonplace.

Amelia nodded, “I see. And can you tell me what you know of the events on Monday the Seventeenth?”

The two wizards shared a look before Raistlin took point. “We were in our home in the evening and were alerted to something happening by the ground quaking. Looking out of our window, we became concerned for Harry’s safety and went to investigate, unintentionally getting into a fight with whatever was possessing his cousin.”

“We don’t know what it was,” Dalamar added, “But it was powerful.”

“Yes, as does it appear, the two of you are,” Amelia ground out, shifting to read over a small selection of papers on her desk, bound together with a large metal clip at the top. “Lightning, the creation of a large sentient being – transfiguration perhaps, fire, and all without wands report eyewitnesses. You were trying to kill the boy. Why? And where did Harry go?”

“Of course we tried to kill him,” Dalamar said as if it were obvious. “It was trying to kill us!”

“More to the point, we were assuming it was a spectral creature of some kind, which is far harder to kill outside a host than inside one,” Raistlin elaborated. “Harry was magicked from the battle to a place of safety and later left to try return to the Dursley house.”

Leaving the matter of Harry for the moment, Amelia asked, “Where did you both train, if not a registered magical school? For the abilities you both have, it’s highly unusual.”

“Home schooled,” the two answered without missing a beat. “Our parents taught us the language of magic and we forged our own spells after our power grew.”

The quill on the desk was still scribbling away and only when it had paused, caught up with the conversation, did Amelia speak again, hand cupping her jaw as she thought of the best phrasing. “Very well. That’s my preliminary assessment as part of the investigations department. Moody will come and collect your statement from the night of the seventeenth in depth. Please cooperate as I want to keep your relationship pleasant. After which, you’ll be escorted to Registration where records will be made of you and your wands.”

The black robes didn’t bother repeating that they didn’t have any, both rather eager to just be _done_. Hardly a minute later, Mad-Eye made his appearance, presumably seeing some kind of summons with his magic eye and grunted for the two to follow him across to his desk.

Mad-Eye’s desk was hidden at the end of a long row of fellow Auror cubicles, tiny cluttered cubbies one could hardly swing a cat in let alone squeeze three fully grown adults into. Still, they managed it, more or less. Dalamar was wedged into the corner and Raistlin was practically sitting in his lap, so crammed was the space, further lessened by Moody cocking out his wooden leg as he crossed it over his regular one, the barest hints of a smirk twitching the corners of his mouth at the two’s obvious discomfort.

They answered the man’s questions in the same evasive manner they had Amelia’s, determined to stick with their story and not invite more investigation, preferring their previous quiet life while exploring this new world of magic than making enemies straight off the bat.

 The registration portion while faster, was certainly perplexing. After explaining for what felt like the umpteenth time that no, they did not have wands, yes, they did cast magic and having to demonstrate this with a quick light spell, were then each beckoned to have their ‘wand arms’ (“Or the ones you write with, Sirs. They’re usually the same.”) measured, and to step on a strange scale where both men appeared to break it as there was no numerical value to the result. This seemed to surprise the clerk also, who exclaimed that only extraordinarily strong wizards achieved such results.

“Oh? Like who?” Raistlin asked curiously as Dalamar offered out his left hand for measurement, despite being right handed as his right arm was still bound in bandages, though not in a sling yet as he didn’t want to offer up an obvious Achilles heel to the unknown wizards.

“Oh, you know, powerful wizards like You Know Who, Dumbledore and Grindlewald. Of course. You Know Who never got registered like this, I just assume he’d get an anomalous result like Dumbledore and Grindlewald did.”

“They weren’t registered at birth?” asked Dalamar raising an eyebrow.

The man paused and scratched his jaw with his wand, “Well, Dumbledore was, but when he dropped out of Hogwarts, the Minister at the time had him reregister once he came of age. Grindlewald came from abroad and so had to register like you two are. Right,” he nodded, marking down the results on two sheets of parchment and offered one to each man. “Just check these over, if everything seems correct, I’ll give you each a pamphlet of the Statute of Secrecy and you’ll be free to go home.”

The parchment simply detailed their names and addresses and measurements along with made up dates of birth, both men reluctantly going for a date in the 1930’s as they obviously didn’t look overly young. Dalamar only doing so because Mad-Eye would likely call him on how wrinkled he was.

“They’re fine,” the elf grunted, handing back his papers and Raistlin’s and moving to stand up.

“Great,” the man smiled and took the parchment and offered two dull covered pamphlets written in purple ink. “These are regarding the Statute of Secrecy and the importance of not displaying magic openly before Muggles. Your stated residence is in a Muggle area, however, you may be able to perform magic within your own home as before. If however, another incident of magic in the presence of a Muggle occurs from either of you, you will be trialled and may spend a period of time in Azkaban prison.”

“We’ll be careful. Thank you.” Raistlin too rose from his seat and lead the way from the man, who bowed his head and bid them a good day. Only once they were back in what the wizards had been calling “Muggle London”, did Raistlin summon the Staff of Magius to him, leaning heavily upon it as they walked.

“Careful now, wouldn’t want to land us in prison, would you?” Dalamar teased.

Raistlin scowled. “Shut up.” He turned to cough into his elbow, the polluted air of Central London doing nothing for his weak lungs. “Dumbledore’s name cropped up a few times,” he pointed out once his airways were clear.

“Yes, it seems the man has a deeper influenced than simply calling in favours,” Dalamar theorised,” Perhaps they idolise him? He certainly seemed to be trying some sort of charm on with us at the house.”

“He can keep trying,” Raistlin said flatly. “I don’t trust that man as far as I could have him thrown. That twinkle in his eyes makes me want to take a dagger to them.”

“Dramatic,” Dalamar scoffed as they found a more secluded area to teleport back to their home from.

They hadn’t even settled before the doorbell went. Raistlin was putting the kettle on and Dalamar had mounted the stairs.

“Your turn,” Dalamar decided.

“You’re closer to the door.”

“Yes, but I’m going to check my shoulder and put a goddamn sling on,” the elf bit, avoiding further argument by continuing up the stairs.


End file.
